


My Heart Melts Like the Snow

by fangirlSevera



Series: A Man for All Seasons [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Christmas, Contractor!Clint, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ice Skating, M/M, New Year's Eve, Professor!Phil, Romance, Valentine's Day, Winter, past Phil Coulson/John Garrett, past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlSevera/pseuds/fangirlSevera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton, wandering contractor, Ren Faire archer, has finally put down roots. He's bought a house, lives close to his best friend, and has a proper boyfriend. </p><p>He's determined to have a traditional, merry Christmas and enjoy all the winter fun the Midwest can offer. He won't even let the occasional snow storm or the return of an ex ruin how well his life is going (much).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Falling in Autumn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2596451). You'll want to read that one first.
> 
> Christmas season is only part of this story, plenty of winter left after the holiday! I want to thank those on tumblr who gave suggestions for what kind of winter activities they wanted to see. They will be added to the tags as they emerge, as well as more characters as they appear more significantly. 
> 
> It won't be until later in the story, but there will be John Garrett/Grant Ward making an actual appearance. Be prepared for that.

Clint awoke, surrounded in warmth, and to the feeling of something trying to burrow under him.

"Wt're y'din?" He slurred, and coughed instead of laughing as he had intended.

Phil shifted again, and pulled on Clint's arm. "Hibernating," he answered, muffled from the blanket, pillows, and Clint's chest.

Clint groaned, but let Phil continue nudging him into a satisfactory position. "Some of us actually have to get up and work today."

"Call in sick."

Clint snorted, wrapping his arms around Phil and squashing his nose into the side of Phil's neck. "Like that won't be suspicious: the day immediately after the semester ends."

"Pepper won't mind." Phil slid his thigh between Clint's and that was just not playing fair.

Clint shifted his hips up and away, as much as he wanted to go the opposite direction. "But Stark wouldn't let it go."

Phil moaned, unhappily that time. "Why is he so interested in our sex life?"

"I think he's into you. Wants to know just how good in bed you are, see what he's missing out on."

Phil shuddered. "Congratulations. That was about as effective as a cold shower," he grumped.

Finally released from Phil's (hot, strong, steady- No, got to work today) grasp, Clint shuffled into the kitchen, toes curling on the cold tile. He switched on the coffee maker, and leaned against the counter, looking out the window.

The sun had barely risen, and was obscured behind gray clouds. The lingering evidence of their last snow fall was broken by thatches of green grass poking up beneath the thin blanket of white. Clint watched tiny flecks of snow dance on a northern wind and sighed. It was becoming more and more tempting to go with Phil's plan and stay indoors all day.

He showered quickly. Too often he'd stay under the warm spray, not wanting to face the air once the shower would be switched off. He gritted his teeth as he stepped out of the tub, and grabbed his biggest and fluffiest towel to dry off fast.

He stopped back in the kitchen to pour two mugs of coffee before heading back to his bedroom. Phil was so thoroughly buried under the covers, his head under the pillows, it looked like there was no one in there at all. Clint placed one of the mugs down on the bedside table.

The blankets stirred. Phil's head emerged, hair mussed and fluffy, squinting at the coffee. Clint had to turn away to get dressed, so he missed most of Phil's determined struggle to sit up, keeping the blankets wrapped around him, and get his coffee in hand without spilling a drop.

"You're adorable," Clint told him after drinking half his own mug in one go.

"Stay," Phil tried one more time.

"Convincing me to play hooky, teach? What would the staff lounge say?"

"I can quote directly, 'Get on that ass as often as possible.'"

"Please tell me that wasn't Nick or Melinda. I won't be able to look either of them in the eye."

Phil shook his head. "Jasper, also in history. You met him briefly at Thanksgiving."

"And people think it's the college _students_ who are all obsessed with sex." Clint took a look at the bedside clock and sighed. "I gotta get going." He leaned over to get a coffee-flavored kiss from Phil. "You going to be here when I get back?"

Phil shrugged, causing on the blankets to slip and expose a bare, freckled shoulder. And Clint was ready to grab his phone, fake a cough, and call one his crew to apologize to Pepper. "I'll text you if I leave."

His eyes were drawn back to Phil's face. With its soft blue eyes, and smirking, pink lips, it was no less distracting. Clint closed his eyes and leaned in for one more hard, quick kiss. "Right. See you later." And with all his will power, he tore himself away.

Clint had to wrap himself up in a fur-lined hat, wooly scarf, and thick gloves before heading outside. He grabbed the tools and equipment he needed from the garage and tossed it into the back of his truck. He climbed inside the cab, cranked up the heat, and headed out.

Tony Stark's mansion was sat outside the city limits. Clint was glad it was still only flurrying, the county roads out that way weren't a priority for the salt trucks and plows. Clint pulled up to the cast iron gate at the end of Stark's long driveway, and put in his security key. The gate opened with the jingle of sleigh bells that were attached to the green garland draped across it.

Clint didn't even make it to the house before he saw two other vehicles following behind him. In one was Thor, a large blond whose parents took immense pride in their Norwegian heritage (a common ancestry in the area). In the other, a trio of army vets Nat had connected him with: Steve, Sam, and James or "Bucky" as he preferred. They all parked on the side of house they were working on and greeted each other as they climbed out of their trucks.

Thor, seemingly impervious to the weather was only in jeans an a t-shirt. The other three were more appropriately attired. The hand on Bucky's prosthetic arm even had a glove on.

"So, what changes do you think Stark has for us today?" Steve asked.

"As long as they don’t involve us taking up that basketball floor that just dried." Sam said.

Clint led the group inside through the French doors that opened into Stark's "Man Cavern" (for it was far too large and glorious to be merely a cave) Clint had started on almost a month ago. With the original plans Tony had presented, they would have been done with the job already. But nearly everyday Pepper, with an apologetic look, presented Clint with a new list of demands and changes.

The mini basketball court that now took up one side of the room had not been in the original plans. The surround sound, club-grade speakers were, but their exact placement and quality had been tweaked. Thor didn't seem to mind, just declaring he relished such a challenge.

Once inside, Sam headed straight to the scaffolding (the man loved to work in heights) to help with the strobe light installation. Bucky removed the tarp covering a section of floor to continue on the tile work (at the moment it was frosted glass, but that was choice number five, and Bucky was getting frustrated at how often he'd had to pull up his own several days worth of work on Stark's whim).

Clint and Steve were trying to figure out the logistics of the automated, retractable stripper poles when a sharp wolf whistle made them all stop and turn. Stark was standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, and leering happily. "Please don't stop on my account. I've seen how pornos start this way."

Steve frowned, Clint rolled his eyes. Stark had made similar comments on their first day. And yeah, Clint obviously noticed, too, that his crew looked less like typical construction workers and more like the kind in Diet Pepsi commercials.

Clint was particularly sensitive to Steve. It wasn't enough that he shared the same name ("It's quite common!" He apparently had to argue frequently) with Captain America, but looked like a carbon copy of the World War II legend. In Clint's more jealous and insecure moods, he'd sworn to never let Steve and Phil meet, lest Phil run off with his favorite hero reincarnated.

"What do you want, Tony?" Clint asked.

"Such attitude! And to your employer!" Stark placed an "offended" hand over his chest and tsked. "I am well within my rights to inspect your progress." He stopped in every corner where someone was currently working, humming contemplatively.

Bucky tensed when Stark loomed over him. He was in therapy, and had made great progress, but having someone approach him from behind wasn't the best situation. Steve moved to intervene, but Stark just hummed again, said, "Love the red," and quickly moved on.

He stood in the middle of the room, did a 360 turn while nodding his head. "It's good, it's good. I like what's going on here. Although..."

"What, Stark?" Clint crossed his arms.

"I'm thinking gold filigree."

"Where, exactly?"

"Oh, you know," he waved one hand around, "every where. The walls, pillars, ceiling."

"So, some kind of Versailles-chic?"

Stark snapped and pointed a well-manicured finger at Clint. "Exactly! Give Pepper an estimate!" He called, strolling away.

Clint had his suspicions about Tony's true motives behind his ever-changing, outlandish demands. He probably thought he needed to keep Clint and company employed through the winter. True, it was not a time of year contractors were in high demand in the Midwest. And in the past, Clint would have simply moved on to dryer and milder regions to find work. But Clint had settled, and did make financial plans accordingly. He was also aware that the others would not be wanting if Stark wasn't being so... generous. Sam and Steve worked down at the VA office (through which Bucky received benefits). Thor was an assistant football coach for the high school (where his girlfriend taught Science).

Clint even had a seasonal job lined-up. The archery range he attended was going to need an extra instructor when all the kids who went to see _Hunger Games_ and _Hobbit_ begged their parents for bows and arrows for Christmas. After the holiday influx, business tended to level out by spring when more than half of them became disappointed they didn't immediately shoot as well as Katniss or elves.

"Where does one get," Sam was asking, climbing down from the ceiling, "and do filigree?"

"I know of an artisan," Thor declared.

"Of course you do," Bucky muttered from the floor.

\---

Phil did text him during the day, saying he had gone to his own house. Clint was relieved. It gave him a chance to freshen up and change his clothes, before seeing Phil again after work. Not that Phil hasn't seen Clint in his not-quite-fresh state. He had even made comment that he appreciated it. But Clint liked making an effort. Classy history professors deserved his effort.

It was full dark by the time he was ready. Clint switched on his backyard light before locking his house and making the quick jaunt to Phil's next door. The door was unlocked, and although Clint was always welcomed, he still knocked before opening the door. When he did step inside he closed his eyes and breathed deep. Spices and an active oven suffused the air with extra comforting heat.

"You’re baking!" Clint's excitement was genuine. Phil's pastry skills were so amazing, Clint was literally turned on from his first bite of pumpkin scones in Phil's kitchen two months ago. Now any promise of more homemade baked goods kind of made him chub a little.

He stepped into the warm kitchen. Nothing was laying out, so whatever he was making was still cooking. Phil's back was to Clint, standing at the sink, cleaning off a rolling pin.

Clint found that backside (and well all of him) irresistible, and wrapped his arms around Phil's waist, nuzzling into the fleece sweater he was wearing. It too was ingrained with the holiday spice smell. Clint moaned. "Gingerbread?"

Phil chuckled, turning in Clint's arms. Be brought his hands up and rubbed his thumbs against Clint's biceps. Clint looked down, and saw flecks of brown dough stuck to Phil's knuckles. Clint grabbed a hand put the finger in his mouth, licking the remnant away. Delicious.

Phil squirmed and tried to pull away. "If you distract me, the cookies could burn," he warned.

"Can't have that," Clint agreed, but didn't let go. "How much longer?" He asked, nosing at the sensitive skin under Phil's jaw.

"Five minutes, I swear, then I'm all yours."

Clint finally pulled back and held him at arm's length. Phil was flushed, his eyes ramping up the temperature in the already stifling kitchen. Clint swallowed and licked his lips. "I can do that. For the sake of the cookies."

Phil laughed again. "I sometimes think you're only with me for my cooking."

"God, no!" Clint insisted, perhaps a bit more seriously than Phil's joking tone warranted. But he never, ever wanted Phil to feel like he was being used. Clint knew the feeling too well himself, and- Well, no one's come right out and given details about what exactly went down with Phil's previous relationship: just the word "psychopath" muttered under disgusted breath.

Phil smiled his little, tight lipped smile, and rolled his eyes. He turned his attention back to the oven, opening it to check on the cookies. Clint turned away from the display presented to him, and opened the fridge to cool himself down a little and grab a bottle of water.

But Phil's look and promise of "all yours" rattled in his head. Phil really meant it, too. He was the most giving and attentive lover Clint had ever had. Most of Clint's previous "relationships" were nothing more than glorified bar hookups: any time spent together simply a formality preceding the fucking.

But it was different with Phil since the very beginning. Phil had hesitated, if not outright balked at getting physical with Clint right away. But once they crossed that threshold in their relationship, Phil did not hold back. And Clint fully understood Phil's initial reluctance. It was never just an act of lust for him. Even during the quickest nooner, Phil put all his passion and care into every moment. It would be a lot to give of himself to the wrong person.

Clint was drawn out of his thoughts by the clatter of metal sheets being taken out of the oven and placed on the counter to cool. Clint was on him before he had the oven mitts all the way off. "I can ravish you now?"

"Yes, you may." Clint started pulling him to the bedroom. "And after, you can help me decorate them. Just don't draw boobs and penises on all of them."

Clint stopped his tugging and smiled. "Just a couple of them?"

"Of course."

Clint sighed, disbelieving his luck. "I love you."

Phil's eyes widened. Clint's whole body prickled, and his breath did catch when his brain caught up with his mouth. But he knew he wasn't going to take it back.

Phil's eyes softened. He brought a hand up to Clint's face, and smiled the sweetest, most heartbreaking smile Clint had ever seen. "I love you, too."

Clint grabbed Phil, and pulled him hard against him, kissing him until neither could breathe.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME: Chopping and decorating the Christmas tree!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The perfect Christmas tree and obscene cookies.

Clint dotted the last frosting eye and grinned at Phil. "A happy family!"

"That one's a little _too_ happy." Phil nodded to a cookie that Clint made quite obvious was a gingerbread man.

Clint waggled his eyebrows. "Just because of how your ass looks in those jeans."

Phil snorted, and rolled his eyes. Clint grinned again. There was really no difference in their behavior. They were talking like they had yesterday, or even that morning. And yet there was definitely something more in the air now. A heavy yet pleasant weight settling between them in every look and word. Clint was experiencing some dissonance of feeling giddy and calm at the same. It was weird. It was incredible.

"We're still on for Saturday, right?" Clint asked. He squeezed some remaining frosting out of the tube on his finger and stuck it in his mouth.

Phil was watching Clint suck on his finger and had to clear his throat. "Of course. What did Natasha say?"

"No to the outside part. Yes to the indoors part."

Phil may have had a little plastic tree on his coffee table, but for Clint Barton, first time homeowner, only the real deal would do.

And Phil had been amazingly supportive of Clint's desire for holiday traditions. When Phil invited him and Natasha to Thanksgiving dinner with his friends. Clint had felt his eyes go wet. When Phil had then wrapped his arms around him and asked what was wrong, it had all come out. Clint told him about his less than savory home life, his parents' deaths, and the round of foster homes where different families had different traditions and celebrations, but none Clint truly felt a part of.

Even as an adult, Clint moved around too much to make connections with people or places. He had Natasha, but she was too indifferent towards holidays to help indulge his needs. But now he had a home, and Phil was more than happy to indulge him, even if it meant going out in the cold and snow to chop down a tree.

Come Saturday, they passed several vehicles with conifers strapped to their roofs when they made their own way to the tree farm. The gravel parking lot Clint pulled his truck into was packed down with snow and patches of thick ice.

Clint jumped out and took a deep breath of the bracing, crisp air, inhaling the aroma of savory pine. He let the breath out, smiling at the large white puff it created in the air in front of him. Phil was smiling, too, looking adorable in his black cap covering his head and ears. Together they crossed through the entrance, dodging screaming kids chasing each other with handfuls of snow.

Clint gazed out at the rows of trees, a little overwhelmed. Selecting the right Christmas tree gave him grander sense of gravitas than the pumpkin patch had. It was the centerpiece of _the holiday_ of the year. It had to be perfect. 

Phil nudged him, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. "You can take your time, but just don't go full Griswald on me."

Clint snorted. "I'm a bit more aware of my house's measurements, thank you." He adjusted his grip on the hacksaw he brought and nodded. Phil pulled a hand out of his pocket and tucked it into Clint's elbow.

Clint walked right past the smaller trees. He was only interested in something at about a foot taller than himself. The farm was separated out by five different varieties. After treading back and forth through the rows (and Phil not making one peep of complaint. Well, not about their current situation. He was complaining about how finals went), Clint found himself drawn to the Norway Spruce. With years of watching the tree lighting at Rockefeller on TV, it imprinted on his mind as looking like how a Christmas tree ought.

Clint inspected several spruces, scrutinizing for fullness, stability, and animals. He gave the trunk of one a hearty shake and turned to Phil. He was standing with his head tilted back, blinking in the light snow that had just begun to fall. His nose and cheeks had gone pink in the brisk breeze. It wasn't cold enough to dampen Clint's libido, though. Even in a puffy coat and dorky cap, Clint wanted to have his way with him. Stupid being out in public. Phil wasn't against PDA, but he would probably draw the line at intense, outdoor make-outs when children were present.

Clint shook his head, keeping a hold on the tree. "What do you think of this one?" Clint asked, instead of attacking that gorgeous face with his mouth.

"Whatever you want. I'm just here for moral support."

"And help carry it."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

Clint stuck his tongue out, inadvertently catching a couple flakes on it. "Get over here and hold it while I cut."

Phil exaggerated a put-upon sigh. "If I must."

They bought a couple cups of hot chocolate while their tree was being netted. Clint frowned to himself at the thought. No, it was _his_ tree. His first. His choice. His house. He glanced at Phil next to him, scowling into his scalding cup of cocoa. Phil who had earlier offered to supplement Clint's ornaments with a box of his mother's he found in the basement. Clint quickly corrected himself again. _Their_ tree. 

\---

Clint called Natasha once he and Phil got the tree inside the house. She arrived just in time to witness Clint getting whacked in the face with a branch that sprung out when he cut away the netting. She laughed as Clint rubbed at the light scratch on his cheek from the needles.

Clint set his tablet up and turned on a holiday music station. A cello solo of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman" transitioned into an electric guitar-riddled "Carol of the Bells" as he stepped up on a stool and started wrapping colored lights around the tree from the top. Natasha and Phil stood on either side of him, and they easily passed the strands of lights between the three of them. It didn't take them long at all. Clint was pleased with the ease they worked as a team. Although there was some griping about needle scratches and sap.

The lights were the only ornaments he bought new. The rest he gathered from different thrift stores. He preferred the small wooden angels, toys, and Santas with chipped paint to the plastic ones in department stores nowadays. But before they got to them, Clint declared a break.

"Tea?" Clint offered.

"No, thanks," Phil said. "I should go get the box I told you about from my basement. Be right back." He gave Clint a quick kiss on the cheek before heading out.

"I'll have tea," Natasha said, following Clint into the kitchen.

She raised an eyebrow at the plate of cookies on the table. "I think your gingerbread porn is something I never needed to know about."

"Aw, c'mon, Nat. Don't judge." He picked up a rather chesty cookie and held it out to her. "Don't hate her because she's beautiful."

She leaned back from it. "While I have no doubt you decorated them, did you make them, too?"

"Don't worry Phil, did."

"In that case." She grabbed the cookie out of his hand and immediately bit its head off.

"Ouch! Harsh."

Her eyes closed, and she hummed in pleasure. Yeah, no one was immune to Phil's indecently delicious baking. She finished it quickly and held at her hand for another. "If you give me one with a penis, I will eat it crotch first."

Clint flinched and gave her one of one of the family-friendly gingerbread men.

Phil had returned just as the electric kettle switched off, catching both Clint and Natasha stuffing cookies into their mouths. He smiled at them, corners of his eyes crinkling in the way that made Clint want trace those lines with his tongue. But Phil passed through to the living room before Clint could collect himself enough to try.

Natasha coughed. "The tea?"

Clint tore his eyes away from Phil as he bent over to put the box on the floor. He poured two cups and handed one to Nat. She sniffed at its contents. "What is this?"

"Sugarplum spice." He held up the festive box with purple faeries on it and gave it a little shake.

She took a sip and wrinkled her nose. "It's disgusting. I love it." She took another drink. Over the mug, she was giving Clint what he called her "interrogator" look. Woe betide a student she suspected of lying. "So, what's happened?"

"With what?"

"You and Phil."

"Nothing! What, do we look like we've been fighting?"

"Did I say that? I just meant you've been different around each other." Clint opened his mouth to protest again, but Nat cut him off. "Not different _bad_."

Clint licked his lips. "We did the thing."

Natasha nearly snorted tea up her nose and choked. "Jesus!" Her voice was low so only Clint could hear, but harsh. "I thought- And if you're calling sex 'the thing'-"

"What! No!" Clint also tried for sotto voce. "I mean we _said_ the _thing_. To each other. You know." He looked down at his mug, rubbing his thumb along the rim. His stomach still flipped when he thought about it.

"Really?" Natasha drew the word out.

"I know, I know. It seems soon. But I feel it, and it feels right. More right than ever before." _Clingy_ , a sneering ghost from Clint's past rose in the back of his mind. He chased it away by turning back to Phil, who was still sorting through his mom's stuff, frowning a little as he tried to untangle thin strings, and let that new, wonderful feeling comfort him. 

Natasha's eyes were on Phil, too, leaning against the counter next to Clint. Her brows were drawing together. "I don't think Phil's the type to say it lightly either."

She sounded so sure about it, Clint had to wonder again just how much Natasha may know about Phil via his best friend. She and Melinda had been getting pretty chummy, and he knew the women talked about them. He wondered if Natasha knew things Clint didn't. Things like the full details about what went down with "psychopath" John that had left Phil so wary about dating for so long.

"What, are you saying, _I_ say it lightly?"

"Not anymore."

Clint narrowed his eyes at her inscrutable profile. "Okay, I'm not getting how _you're_ feeling about all this." 

"Does how I feel matter?"

"It won't change my feelings or my relationship with him. But yeah, I still care about your feelings, too."

Her lips tilted up on one side, and her eyes flickered in a subtle roll. "I am happy for you, Clint. For both of you. You found a keeper."

"Oh, yeah? And does Mel think I'm keeper for Phil?"

"You should ask her yourself."

"I tried talking to her at Thanksgiving, remember? Her blank-face is worse than yours. I didn't know if I was boring her, annoying her, or if she was scanning me like a Terminator."

"Are you kidding? Melinda loves you." Of course that would be the moment Phil came close enough to hear their conversation.

"Really?" Clint did not know how robot-stare translated to "love." And he had experience now with how that looked on another person thank you very much. "She's said that. Explicitly."

Phil paused. "Not explicitly. But that’s because the only thing she's more protective of than me is her own feelings."

"No wonder you two get on," Clint told Nat. "You must talk as little as possible. Communicate entirely with eyebrow raises."

"Yes. And she's explicitly said through subtle eyebrow semaphore, that she likes you."

Well, that was a load off. Nick Fury may have given him a detailed shovel-talk, but Melinda's quiet judgment had been terrifying.

The synthetic opening chords to "Wonderful Christmastime" dragged Clint's thoughts back to the task at hand. "Come on guys," he said, taking a final gulp of his sweet tea. "Back to work."

Natasha ripped the plastic off a box of candy canes, and started hanging them in a symmetrical pattern, equidistant from each other with scary accuracy. Phil hummed along to the music as he trailed behind her, placing little wooden ornaments in a more haphazard fashion.

Clint got out the shoebox filled the ornaments he had bought. Sitting on top was a red stocking he bought plain, but then stopped at craft store and got felt letters and glue to put him name across the top. With the assistance of plastic mouse with a hooked tail, he hung it from his electric fireplace. Natasha came over with her last candy cane and dropped it inside.

"Aw, thanks. You're a perfect Christmas elf." He got a punch in the arm for that.

After depleting his own supplies, Clint shifted through the ornaments in the box Phil brought. His mother's Christmas aesthetic fit perfectly in with Clint's. Several of the ornaments looked possibly homemade. There was one in particular that caught Clint's eye. It was made out of popsicle sticks, colored with faded markers. The glue keeping the sticks together had dried in large globs. It was supposed to be a star or maybe a snowflake? Phil's name was scrawled on the back with a child's penmanship, but it was what was on the other side that made Clint grin.

"Is this you?" He held up the ornament. There was a small photo glued to the front of a little boy with a mop of brown hair, bright freckles, and a smile that showed where several teeth were missing.

Phil leaped at him, and grabbed it away before Natasha could get a good look. He stuck it back the box, and started covering it up with other ornaments, his face slightly pink.

"Aw, c'mon. I think it's sweet. You were what, seven?"

"I just can't believe she kept it."

Clint supposed it was the sort of thing a good mother did. He glanced over at Natasha, she was watching them, amused but curious. Her own upbringing wasn't terribly traditional either. Making crafts for your parents in elementary school was not part of her nor his experiences growing up. But Clint could appreciate the significance. He wasn't so sure she did.

Phil picked up a couple of tiny snowmen and went back to the tree. Clint looked down in the box again, torn between wanting to respect Phil's embarrassment, and needing to see that adorable kid again.

They covered the tree with decorations. Clint topped it all off with a faceless angel made from brown and beige raffia. He stood back and looked it all over. "Help me shift it over? Closer to the window." Phil grabbed the trunk along with Clint, Natasha got on the floor to scoot the base along. Content with the position, Clint got on the floor and wrapped the red skirt around the bottom, fussily fanning it out evenly. He grabbed the plug for the lights and looked over his shoulder. "Ready?"

Natasha made a "get on with it" gesture. Phil tilted his head up, eyes widening, caught staring. "Ready." He smiled encouragingly at Clint. Clint winked and plugged the lights in.

He jumped up to get his first look at his complete Christmas tree. Phil walked around, switching the lights off in the living room and kitchen, so that the three of them were only lit by the tree. The lights mixed to create a soft pink glow that reflected off the colorful ornaments. Clint had to take a deep breath. It was beautiful.

"I want to see how it looks from the sidewalk."

Phil and Natasha followed Clint outside without being asked, no one bothering with coats. The lights out there were already on, set to a timer close to sunset. He had put those lights up the week after Thanksgiving. Phil had come home from work, worried to find Clint crawling around the roof with wires and a staple gun. "What do you think I do for a living?" He had called down to him, straightening the icicle lights so they would hang properly from the roof's edge.

"Not when there's patches of ice and snow, and when no one's around to call 911!" Phil had argued back.

There had been no reassuring Phil, and he stood out there, head tilted back, lips pressed in a hard line until Clint's feet had returned to solid ground.

Along with the icicle lights, he wrapped the front porch railings with red and green tube lights, and rows of candy canes lit the walk up to the steps. From inside the front window, the tree added just the right amount of sparkle.

Natasha and Phil stood on either side of him. He put an arm around both and pulled them against his sides. The display was altogether fairly simple, but it looked perfect to Clint.

"I'm glad you talked me out of the inflatable singing snowman," Clint said.

"You're welcome," he got in stereo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Clint panics at the mall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic! At the Mall. Gifting insecurities. More cookies. And an ominous correspondence.

Clint did not want to be _that_ guy, _that_ boyfriend who waited until the last minute to rush to the store and buy presents. Technically, six days wasn't last minute, but Phil already had wrapped boxes and tissue-stuffed bags in his closet (Clint hadn't been snooping, honest!). It made Clint feel like a slacker. 

The amount of people still crowding the mall made Clint feel a little better. He wasn't alone in procrastinating. The hustle, bustle and noise didn't bother him at all. In fact, he found it quite invigorating. He was right in the thick of the season. Lines from "Silver Bells" came to mind, and he started humming it even as the muzak played a different Christmas song.

He must have done two complete circuits of the main corridor, too indecisive to even step foot in a store. He was coming around the center court again. It was especially noisy with the North Pole set up and Santa seated in a large, red throne. Families stood in a snaking queue, corralled by rope and teenaged elves.

Clint never got to sit on Santa's lap and whisper childish desires in his ear. He was close once. One of his foster homes brought their whole lot down to the mall with the best intentions. But when one of the littler kids got scared of the large, red stranger, and wouldn't stop screaming, the adults rounded them all up and left without everyone getting a turn.

Clint stopped for a moment and watched as a dark-haired girl, thumb in mouth, stared up at Santa in wide-eyed awe as the padded performer tried to goad her into talking. Clint sighed over missed opportunities. He then smiled to himself. He had a better deal now anyway. It didn't have to be Christmas for him to sit on Phil's lap and whisper very adult desires in his ear. Hey, since it was the season, maybe he could even get Phil to wear the hat at least once.

"Excuse me!" A woman huffed, jostling Clint physically and from his thoughts. She pushed by him, clipping him with the edge of one of her many bags.

Right, presents. Clint rubbed the back of his neck. He was simply going to do what he always did when he started to panic. He took out his phone and dialed. "Nat! Help!" He pressed himself against a wall in one of the less populated wings, but still had to stick a finger in one ear to hear her.

"I can't do this right now, Clint. You know we have rehearsals right now." He did know. Natasha was helping coordinate the winter dance recitals at the community theater. She was getting so sick of Tchaikovsky he caught her venting her frustration by vigorously shaking the nutcracker on his dining table,

"But I don’t know what to do!"

"You know him better than I do. How am I suppose to help?"

Clint ran a hand through his hair, and gave a tug. "I dunno. What's Melinda getting him?"

"Melinda knits."

"Really?" Yeah, okay, Melinda wielding large, sharp objects was not that big of a stretch of the imagination. Something handmade and personal, though. If Clint was a decent boyfriend, he would have thought of that. He could have built Phil something. Not that he had any idea what Phil needed that he could make. And definitely nothing he could do in a week. "I'm a terrible boyfriend!"

"No, you're not." Natasha words were clipped. "Go to Gloria Jean's, get yourself one of those sickeningly sweet holiday coffees you love, and _sit down_ for a moment. It'll come to you. And no matter what it is, Phil will love it. Don't second guess yourself." The opening notes of "Dance of the Sugarplum Faeries" came over the phone. Natasha sighed deeply. "Have to go. Good luck." 

"You, too."

The line for coffee was nearly as bad as it was for Santa. Clint got his large peppermint bark latte (with whipped cream) and managed to find an empty seat out in the food court. He let the cloud of conversation and the mixing food smells of Chinese, Italian, coffee, and buttery pretzels become background as he thumbed over pictures on his phone: Pictures of Phil, pictures of him and Phil, Phil and his friends in their Halloween costumes, Phil and Natasha at Thanksgiving.

Clint couldn't believe his luck. Less than a year ago he couldn't have imagined having this many amazing people in his life, especially not someone like Phil. He hadn't known much about his future neighbors when he chose the little white house to buy. He was given the usual real estate agent spiel about everyone being nice, quiet, hard-working, middle class types.

When Phil had introduced himself the day Clint moved in, he wished the agent might have mentioned "incredibly handsome bachelors." Clint would have signed a lot quicker.

He stopped on his favorite photo of Phil. He was wearing his glasses and smiling shyly, like he didn't understand why someone would want as many photos of him as Clint did. Silly really. Clint contemplated the photo, the man, and the things he loved. He loved baking, coffee, 20th century military history, Clint (yay!), Captain America stuff, and nice suits.

Clint slurped down his sugary coffee and thought about the different stores the mall had to offer. He was certain he could find something that would fit in with least one of those things.

He had walked right pass the comics and collectibles store before because its front display was mostly plastic action figures and sports memorabilia. Not quite up Phil's alley. But apart from scrounging around antique stores, it was his best bet.

He walked by shelves of novelty mugs, bobble heads, and racks of t-shirts with police boxes on them before he spotted the glass display cases surrounding the cash register. Inside were the higher-end items such as immaculately sculpted statuettes of busty heroines, and letter openers fashioned after Tolkien swords that boasted "real silver!" on a little placard. There was a watch on the bottom shelf that eventually caught his eye.

The band was a polished, smoke, stainless steel. The face of the watch was in the style of Cap's shield: red and white circles with the hands centered in a white star. Instead of being typically comic book bright, the colors were darkened, matching the band. The bezel even shone in dark sapphire. It separated the watch from the cartoony kid's versions, making it stylish and subtle enough for a businessman or other professional who favored suits.

"How much?" Clint asked, tapping the case when a sales clerk stepped his way.

The clerk crouched down, the price tag on his side of the case. "$150."

The price made him twitch involuntarily. He never spent that much on a single present before. But he had been working for Tony Stark of late, and actually could afford to splurge more this season. He just wasn't used to the idea.

"It comes in a very nice gift box," the clerk added, sensing Clint's hesitation.

"No, yeah, great! I'll take it, I mean."

"Cool." The clerk fidgeted with the small keys clipped to his belt. "Are you buying now, or did you want to look around some more?"

"All set."

Clint left the store feeling much lighter than when he first arrived at the mall all together. He texted Nat: _Thanks for coffee break idea._

The reply came a minute later: _You'd be lost without me._

Clint brought his purchase home. He ventured down into his basement which he only used for storage and his weight bench. He pulled out a plastic bin where he kept folded boxes, wrapping paper, ribbon, and tags. Buried under it all was the present he bought for Natasha. Every year she told him not to, and every year he did it anyway.

He took time out of working at the Ren Faires each summer to browse the vendor's booths. All those months ago he found a pair of black leather arm braces with a dragon design in blood red. They had made him think of Natasha immediately.

He put them in one of the plain boxes and wrapped it up with shiny paper covered in silver snowflakes. He then gathered a bunch of the ribbon, ran his scissors along the flat edge, creating a cluster of curls he then taped to the box. On the tag he wrote her name in Cyrillic and under "from" put, младший брат.

Phil's watch came in its patriotically decorative box, and Clint covered all that up with the silver and white paper, then gave it a similar ribbon treatment. He was far more straightforward with the tag, though.

He set them down and considered his work. The paper was a bit wrinkled, the corners not quite even, and he used maybe too much tape. But it was preferable to some in-store job. Satisfied, he brought the packages upstairs and set them under his tree.

He stepped back and frowned. Two small boxes alone under a large tree was looking pretty pathetic. Maybe he needed to go out and get real presents for Thor, Sam, Steve, and Bucky instead of the gift cards he already planned to give them. Should he be giving gifts to Phil's friends, or would that be awkward? He could always wrap empty boxes just to fill in the floor space, but that might actually have been more pathetic.

It was just too sad. Clint picked them back up and decided instead to stash them away in the bottom dresser drawer in his bedroom. He'd take them out to the tree when he was ready to give them.

\---

"I always supplement my gifts with cookies, if that helps," Phil told him.

He hadn't meant to bring it up, honest, but he only had a couple days left with his crew before the holidays and he was obsessing over the inadequacy of his gifting skills.

"Baking seems to be your answer for a lot of things."

Phil shrugged. "Keeps me out of trouble."

"I'm not going to have you make cookies for people you don't know."

"Who said I was making them?" He smiled wickedly, a look Clint normally appreciated, but at the moment filled him with dread.

Phil grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into the kitchen. "You always come in when the baking's almost done. Time to help more."

Clint stood dumbly in the middle of the kitchen while he watched Phil pull out a large bowl, and an array of ingredients with quick opening and closing of cabinets. "It's just sugar cookies, Clint. It'll be easy."

"I tried making a birthday cake for Nat once. From one of those pre-mixed boxes. She's made me promise to never bake anything ever again."

Phil smiled gently. "I believe in you."

Clint pressed his lips together. Maybe he was becoming more and more of a sap as he got older, but damn it was nice to hear that. Almost as nice every time Phil said, "I love you." Clint took a deep breath and picked up a measuring cup. "Okay, tell me how much and when."

Phil pushed up the sleeves of his grey sweater (which was an incredible look for him. Clint adored those forearms, okay?) and shoved the canister of flour at him.

In the end, it was fun working with Phil in the kitchen. He gave direction clearly, guided Clint's hand to show him the most efficient way to stir. When the dough reached the consistency where he could grab it with his hands, Phil was clattering about behind him, prepping the backing sheets. Clint pinched a piece of dough off and popped it in his mouth. It was incredibly not bad.

"Don't make yourself sick." Phil warned when Clint took another bite.

Phil looked at the dough, poking it with one finger. "I think you're ready to roll it out." Phil dusted the countertop with flour and Clint plopped the dough on top of it. Phil handed him the rolling pin with an encouraging look.

Clint took the pin and pressed it down. instead of flattening out, the dough clung to the pin and started to wrap around it. Clint grunted and tried again. It did the same thing. He tried going slower, he tried going faster, same damn result. Clint outright growled after another failed attempted.

Phil looked up from sorting through tin cookie cutters. "Dust some flour on the pin."

"I did! There's so much extra flour the cookies are gonna end up chalky and gross." He grabbed the pin from one end and gave the dough a hearty smack with it.

"Here, let me see." Phil and Clint shuffled around each other. With elbows bent, and three quick pushes, the dough was lying out on the counter flat with even thickness.

"Goddamn cookie ninja," Clint muttered, unresentfully.

"It takes practice. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to fire a bow first time."

He probably would. Because he was perfect. Although, teaching Phil to shoot has been a long-held fantasy for Clint. He'd be allowed to get handsy with him in a public place in the name of proper instruction. Gripping those arms, moving them into position, watching them flex...

"So, you have three guys, right? And I usually make six to a bag." Phil brought Clint out of his lecherous thoughts, handing him the cookie cutters. There was a star, a tree, a bell, a snowman, and a stocking. Phil must have decided to err on the side of caution and didn't give Clint anything person-shaped.

Showed what he knew. Clint could still make rude cookies with what he had if he wanted.

It was pretty fun, pressing down on the cutters, pulling shapes out. It sparked some ancient memory of playing with neon-bright play-doh in a small classroom. He placed each cut-out delicately on the lined baking sheet while Phil excused himself to check the mail.

The oven was already pre-heating, so Clint put his sheets in and set the timer. "Hey. Phil what am I suppose to do with the left-over... Phil?"

Phil was sitting in the living room. A stack of Christmas cards lying out on the coffee table, but he held one in his hand, grip tight to the point of tearing the card, his face ashen. "Woah, what's wrong?" Clint sat slowly next to him.

"Son of a bitch!" Phil spat, and threw the card away from himself like it had been set on fire.

"Uhm," Clint eyed Phil and the card warily. He moved to pick it up, and Phil did nothing to stop him, just sat there with his jaw clenched and nostrils flared. It was a look Clint had never ever seen on him before.

The card was a typical Christmas greeting card, with a couple snowmen on front. They looked like their stick arms were around each other's shoulders. Inside, the printed message read: "Wishing you all the joys of the season!"

Underneath was a simple scratchy signature: _Love, John_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME: Creepy cards aside, everyone has a wonderful Christmastime.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHRISTMAS! So many cookies! Nervous gift-giving! Well-intentioned movie marathon! Stark gives great holiday bonuses (but don't drink the egg nog)! Natasha and....?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for this chapter: First part is a big ol' exposition dump that primarily deals with a past emotionally/psychologically abusive relationship that was on the verge of physical abuse. Take care.

Phil wordlessly took the card from Clint's hand and tore it up, heading back to the kitchen. Clint followed. After throwing the pieces of card and envelop away, he gripped the kitchen counter. He was taking deep breaths through his nose, face still set to something akin to murderous.

Clint swallowed. This was a new side of Phil, and he wasn't sure how to handle it. Tentatively, Clint reached out a hand and set it on Phil's back. At his touch, the tension left Phil's shoulders, and he let out a long breath. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, they were once again soft and familiar to Clint. "I'm sorry. I told myself long ago to stop letting him get in my head. And that's all this is. Just trying to mess me with me."

Clint let his hand drag down Phil's arm, a comforting stroke. He had a hundred questions on his tongue, but the oven timer startled them both, blaring into the moment's silence.

Phil busied himself with taking the cookies out and setting them on the cooling rack.

"Phil, I-" Clint started.

Phil held up a halting hand. "Give me moment, okay?" He smiled, but it wasn't as reassuring as he had probably hoped. He disappeared into his bedroom.

Feeling useless, Clint searched out the array of colorful frostings he knew Phil had. He set them out on the table, fussing over lining them up in a straight line. He took his phone out, fingers itching to call Natasha. But his own need for comfort in the moment was not as important as Phil's. He put it away and waited.

Phil reemerged a few minutes later, looking to have collected himself and his thoughts. "Are those cool enough yet?" He asked.

Clint poked a cookie. "Think so." He piled them onto a plate and carried them over to the table. Clint sat down and grabbed the white frosting. Phil was still standing, watching.

"I suppose now's a good time as any to explain."

"You don't have to." Clint said quickly.

Phil nodded once and took a seat and started decorating cookies himself. "John..." He took a breath and started again. "John is very friendly and charming. He tells the most outrageous stories, and dirtiest jokes. He faces the world with a smile and a laugh. He can be a lot of fun to be around."

Clint was feeling antsy at the use of present tense. But he held his comments, smearing red frosting on a stocking-shaped cookie.

"It took me too long to see. To really notice how whenever we did anything it was on his terms. And if it was something I wasn't particularly keen on, he always managed to cajole me in to it. We never did anything I had suggested. If I made plans with my friends, he invited himself along. At first I thought it was a good thing. That he wanted to get to know them. Of course now I realize he was being possessive. It also made it harder for my friends to express any concerns about our relationship in his presence."

Clint had a hard time imagining Melinda or Nick censoring themselves like that. Not with the way they had treated Clint. But then maybe it had all been learned behavior.

"Not that they hadn't tried at other times. At work. But I was in denial. That I was perfectly content with my relationship. The final straw was when John had gotten a job offer that had required him to move. I didn't even know he was searching for a new job, and suddenly he was telling me about how we were going to move up North, not once asking me my own thoughts and feelings on it. I finally confronted him about it, and everything else I had been ignoring."

Phil paused. He glanced up at Clint briefly, then went back to concentrating on giving a little snowman a hat. "He lashed out. Physically."

The star in Clint's hands broke. He saw red, only the sound of Phil's even voice keeping him from running out the door and hunting this guy down.

"Fortunately, he forgot that one of the things I used to do with Melinda before his interference was some beginner's martial arts lessons. I was able to block him, then broke his nose. And got out of there. I called Nick, told him what happened. By the time I got home, Nick was already here with new locks and keys.

"John started leaving me voice messages the next day. Saying he was sorry he lost his temper, and to prove he wasn't angry he wasn't going to report me for assault." Phil snorted. "I called him back once, just so there was no misunderstanding: I was done with him, and I didn't want to hear from or see him again. I had to change my phone number after a week of his continued calls. The worst of it was when I came home from work once, found my door locks tampered with, and a bedroom window had been broken."

"Jesus," Clint breathed.

"I called the police, but there was no evidence It wasn't anything other than an attempted burglary. But I knew. Melinda, Nick, and even Maria wouldn't let me be alone until we were certain John left for that new job. Once he did, I hadn't heard from him until-" He gestured his head to the trashcan.

Clint knew if he ever met John, he'd put an arrow through his dick. " _Fuck_ , Phil. And you don't think that card means he's going to come back for you?" Clint was still having a hard time unclenching his hands.

Phil reached across the table, and pried his fingers loose, threading his own through them. "Hey, hey. We're not going to let him ruin our Christmas together. It only gives him the control he wants. We're not going to let him have it. We ignore him and be happy."

Clint gripped Phil's hands tight. "I love you."

Phil, eyes a little misty, smiled and squeezed back. "Love you, too."

\----

The guys in Clint's crew were more than happy with their gift cards and cookies.

It was only two days until Christmas Eve. It had been several days since they had been given any new instructions for the Man Cavern. They were left with just finishing touches, and double checking everything. They worked as quietly as possible, hoping to go unnoticed before Stark could change his mind again at the last minute.

Clint was tightening down the top of the wet bar. Sam and Thor were testing the integrity of the basketball hoops, read: having a dunking contest. Bucky was sprawled out on the curved sofa that was big enough to hold a dozen people around the entertainment center. He was playing with the remote controls, making sure all the buttons worked for the television, the sound, the lights, and of course, the poles.

Two metal bars rose from the floor at the push of a button. Bucky grinned. "Hey, Steve, get over here. We've got to test these for stability, too!"

Steve looked over from where he was hanging a giant framed poster of Mick Jagger. "I don't think so, Buck."

"C'mon, Steve, you don't want some poor stripper falling on their ass, getting hurt, do you?"

"Did I hear 'Steve' and 'stripper' in the same sentence? Should I go grab some ones?"

Everyone fell silent and tensed. They watched Stark cross the room like he was a cobra ready to strike. He barely gave the space around him a cursory glance before tilting his chin at Clint. "Walk with me, Barton."

The hallways of Stark's mansion were bustling with staff hanging wreaths, garlands and bows. Clint followed Tony to the foyer where a tree, at least 60 feet tall had been erected, and people on scaffolding were placing giant ornaments. "Everything looks good," Tony said, looking at the tree, but apparently talking to Clint. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a check. "What I owe you and the boys, plus a Christmas bonus."

Clint took it and nearly swallowed his tongue. "This is-"

"Exactly what you deserve."

"But-"

"If you feel the need to express gratitude. I'll only accept a promise that you and Professor come to my Christmas party. Oh, and let the rest of the Village People know they're invited, too, with any plus ones they may have."

Phil had warned that Stark may extend such an invitation. He had sworn off going to Tony's Christmas Eve party's a few years ago, when Stark had cage dancers dressed as reindeer. "Not exactly my idea of how the holiday should be celebrated," Phil had said.

"Yeah, we already have plans for just the two of us," Clint told Tony.

"But I have the best egg nog. It's legendary!"

Legendarily near-fatal according to Phil. "Far more rum than egg or nog," he had said.

"Sorry, Tony, we just can't make it. But I'll tell the guys. And, maybe I can get Phil to come to New Year's."

"New Years!" Tony crowed. "Oh, you have not been to a New Year's party till you've been to one of mine! You need to sign in blood somewhere that you and Hot-For-Teacher are coming this year."

Clint was torn between commenting on that technically Clint would be "Hot-For-Teacher," or Stark's unabashed objectification of someone else's boyfriend. In the end, he decided neither were worth while, and would only keep the conversation going longer than he wanted.

He told his crew the good news that they were officially done with the job. There was an immediate cheer and talk about going out to celebrate (or for libations, as Thor put it). Clint left them to finish packing up as he went to the bank to cash Stark's check and get them their pay.

Everyone's expressions were priceless when they were given their share.

"Man's crazy, but I find myself unable to care," Sam said.

"This means I can take my Jane and my family on the trip we spoke of often, to the land of my ancestors!"

Steve, of course, protested the amount at first, then started talking about charities, until Bucky reminded him it was okay to spend money on himself, too.

Clint parted from them with hugs, seasons greetings, and promises to keep in touch even before the high-demand contractor season began again.

\----

It was Christmas Eve day, and to Clint's giddy delight, it was even snowing! Fat flakes fell thickly to the ground, accumulating over the remnants of snowfalls past. He watched it from where he sat up in bed, the curtains open to his backyard. Next to him, Phil slept on, arm thrown over Clint's waist.

Phil had come over the night before, intent on staying for the whole of Christmas Eve with Clint. He brought a change of clothes and platter filled with assorted treats (more gingerbread and sugar cookies, peppermint crumble bars, and little sugary balls he claimed were sugar plum cookies). Clint joked that he was clearly just trying to fatten him up like a fairy tale witch.

Phil had also brought over all his presents and put them under Clint's tree. He then persuaded Clint to grab the two he hidden away in his dresser. It brought the collection of packages to a grand total of five, but it was a far better sight than it had been a week ago.

Clint shifted back down the bed to plaster himself to Phil's side. Phil grumbled in his sleep at being jostled. Clint brought a hand up to Phil's face, rubbing lightly against the morning stubble he found there. Phil still didn't open his eyes. Clint leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple. Phil's eyes tightened before one slit open. "Mmmhm?" He inquired.

Clint smiled and ducked his head to kiss Phil properly. It took a second for Phil to waken enough to return it. Clint loved pre-coffee Phil. When he was sleep-warm and loose-limbed. While Clint had plans for the day, he was more than happy to spend the morning at a leisurely pace.

They eventually showered together, squeezing close in Clint's small tub. It was mid-morning before they were fully dressed.

Phil made coffee. Clint set up the living room for their Christmas movie marathon, starting with _It's a Wonderful Life_. They spent most of the day on the sofa, close to each other's side under a tattered quilt, eating from Phil's platter of treats. Occasionally, they'd get distracted from the movies. Clint still wasn't sure what exactly happened in _White Christmas_. Phil's tongue was far more interesting than the songs. 

By nightfall, the snow stopped. Clint's lights glowed brighter, reflecting off the fresh whiteness on the ground.

They turned off the TV for dinner, and turned on the radio. Clint ate with a nervous energy, his knee bouncing under the dinner table. Phil noticed, of course. "Did you want to open presents after this?"

"It wouldn't been too early, would it?"

"A lot of people do presents Christmas Eve, especially if they don't have to wait for Santa anymore."

Phil laughed when Clint finished his dinner all the quicker.

They switched off all the lights, even the fireplace, so that only tree was lit. On the radio, a choir belted out "Deck the Halls" as Clint sat cross-legged in front of the wrapped boxes. Phil followed suit, facing Clint.

Clint took the little box with a slight tremble in his fingers. The certainty of his choice dissipated a little now that the moment came. When Phil pulled out a box much larger than the one in Clint's hand, his stomach dropped a little more. Clint looked up from the package to Phil's face. At least he looked just about as nervous as Clint was feeling.

"So, uhm, here." Clint thrust the present under Phil's nose.

Phil laughed and took it with one hand and pushed his gift towards Clint. "Open at the same time?"

Clint shook his head. "No, you first."

Clint held his breath as Phil undid the wrapping. The gift box underneath made Phil's eyes light up, and he glance at Clint, already smiling. Clint still didn't breathe. Phil opened the box, and let out a quiet gasp. "Oh!" He pulled the watch out, and examined it in the twinkling lights. "Clint! I... It' beautiful. Thank you!"

Clint finally let his breath out in a long whoosh of relief. Only to have it stolen away again when Phil leaned forward and kissed him. "It's perfect," he said against Clint's lips. "Help me put it on?" He leaned back and offered the watch and his wrist to Clint.

Clint slipped the band over Phil's hand, and secured it. The gesture was achingly reminiscent of something else Clint didn't dare touch upon, not even in his own private thoughts.

Phil brought his wrist up to his face, twisting the watch's crown until it displayed the correct time. "You now." He nodded to the box at Clint's knee.

Knowing that Phil loved his present, Clint almost didn't care about what he received in return. Almost. He tore through the paper eagerly only to uncover a plain white box. He clawed at the tape keeping the flaps down with a grunt of frustration. "If there's tons of tissue paper in this, so help me..." He grumbled.

Phil laughed. "Sorry. It was a bit of a tradition in my family. To make us work for it a bit. My father would triple-up on wrapping paper, each layer a different design."

Clint got the box open and reached inside. His hands met with the softest material he ever felt in his life. He pulled at it, and the material kept coming and coming until he had it piled in his lap. It was a blanket, its color a deep purple. Clint stared down at it, unable to keep his fingers from stroking against it.

"I know it's simple..." Phil fidgeted with the band of his new watch.

Clint brought it up to his face. It was so soft! And warm! He inhaled, and it even smelled of Phil, having been sitting in his closet for the past several weeks. He imagined staying wrapped up in the for the rest of winter, wrapping Phil in it, so it smelled all the more like him. He could see it draped over the couch, or spread over his bed. He would see it every day he came home from work and knew he was comforted and cared for.

"It's amazing." Clint reluctantly took it away from his face so he could look at Phil, who's eyes were still watching him with uncertainty. "What's it made from?"

"Cashmere."

Clint shrugged, the word meaning nothing to him. "Well, I hope it's easy to clean because we're going to have so much sex on this."

Phil laughed finally. His own relief and happiness fueling Clint's. Clint surged forward and toppled Phil back onto the carpet.

"Merry Christmas," Phil said, wrapping his arms around Clint's back.

"Merry Christmas," Clint said into Phil's neck. "Love you."

\---

Phil stayed until Christmas Day morning. He was going to Melinda's to see her and Nick, and exchange presents after brunch. Phil invited Clint to come with one more time, but Clint declined. He was expecting Natasha sometime so he could give her her gift whether she liked it or not.

Clint helped to clear a path between their houses and Phil's driveway after the prior day's snow. Phil gathered the presents under Clint's tree, leaving only the one box behind. Phil's good-bye kiss turned into several. He finally left after an impatient text from Melinda hustled him out the door.

Clint puttered around his house, coffee in hand, and purple blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He turned the DVD player back on to give _White Christmas_ another go, but that's when front door opened. Through a blast of cold air, Natasha stepped in. Her faux-fur lined collar was snug around her neck, and she was wearing sunglasses, although the day was cloudy. A horn beeped, and Clint looked out the window just in time to catch the glimpse of a somewhat familiar vehicle leaving his driveway.

He gave Natasha a curious look. She slowly took her coat off, but not the sunglasses. Her hair was a little musstg, and her clothes looked slept in. She was over all the least put together he had ever seen her, and he had nursed her through the flu once. "Are you okay? And," his brain finally clicked on the vehicle that dropped her off, "was that Barnes?"

She pressed a finger against his lips heavily and shushed him. "Talk. Quieter." She swallowed hard and slid her shades off.

"Whoa!" She flinched. Clint apologized quickly and lowered his voice. "What happened to you?"

"Stark. Nog. She gave Clint a once over, and grimaced. That better not light up," she said, meaning the nose on Clint's ugly Rudolph sweater.

"Nah, it was broke when I bought it. Alas."

Carefully, Natahsa took a seat on the sofa. She looked so ill he considered comforting her with his incredible, magic blanket, but then considered the risks of her throwing up on it. Not to mention she probably wouldn't appreciate Clint mother-henning over her just because of a hangover. Even if it was clearly no ordinary one. In fact, had he ever seen her with a hangover before? He was pretty sure he'd seen her get into mead-drinking contests with the burliest guys at the Faires, and not only win, but be up and about the next day fresh as a daisy.

"How about some water?"

"Yeah, I can do water." She eyed the leftover cookies on the coffee table sadly. He picked them up and moved them away. It was cruel for her to have Phil's baking in sight and not feel well enough to partake in them.

"You need aspirin?"

She almost shook her head, but stopped, thinking better of it. "Had some."

"Bucky?"

She hummed flatly.

"...Is that a... Thing?"

She hummed darkly.

Right. Well, that was about as much as he was going to get from her even on a good day. Where he needed constant help when it came to his romantic entanglements. Natasha wasn't quite as big on sharing. He was confident though of her ability to take care of herself. He was the one with the issues. The urge to have a "talk" with Bucky was strong, though.

Natasha sipped her water and squinted at the lone package under Clint's tree. "Clint..."

"Come on! Like you weren't expecting it."

She tried rolling her eyes, but flinched before she could complete the rotation. Clint brought it over, and plopped it in her lap before sitting next her. She opened her gift, hands hovering over the leather bracers. Her lips twitched into a smile. "Very cool." She pushed her sleeves up, ready to try them on. Her bare arm brushed Clint's, still covered in his blanket.

She glanced down at it. "That's new."

He grinned. "From Phil. Cashmere."

She raised a brow and whistled.

"What?"

She pursed her lips. "Nothing."

"What?" He clutched it tighter around him. "It's not ridiculously expensive is it? Is it?"

She shrugged. "How would I know?"

"I hate you."

She was lacing up the bracers on her arms, not looking at him when she said. "You'll change your mind when you snoop around my coat pockets."

"Nat! You never get me presents!" He grabbed it off the coat rack and rifled through the pockets. He pulled out a simple leather bracelet. It was broad and buckled together. He laughed. Someone had been browsing the booths last summer, too. "Aw. Thanks!" He leaned over and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas."

"Yeah, yeah. I think I can eat cookies now."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays, dear readers! 
> 
> NEXT TIME: New Years! How many inches of snow!?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Year's Eve and there ain't no party like a Stark-hosted party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For abundant alcohol use, and characters getting drunk. Don't worry, Melinda is an awesome friend and will make sure everyone stays safe.

Clint was dead. There could be no other explanation for why he couldn't move, couldn't see. Why his mouth tasted like his tongue was decaying. Why his head weighed 50 pounds. Why his nose was full of a smell akin to Satan's armpit...

 

**Eight hours earlier:**

Stark's mansion was lit up like a beacon of decadence. There were actual search lights waving by the front entrance like a Hollywood premiere. The music from inside was audible from the gate. Phil drove up the drive with a resigned look on his face.

"If you rather just turn around..." Clint suggested.

"No, no. It's no worse than every other year. And you should try spending New Year's at an overblown party at least once in your life. And our friends are here."

Except for Natasha, who turned green when Clint asked if she was going back to Stark's.

Inside the front doors, people who looked like models, covered in glitter, handed out party hats and noisemakers to the arriving guests. Clint accepted the hat, and promptly put it on at a jaunty angle. He tilted his head at Phil, seeking approval. Which he got, with an eye roll and a smile. Past the foyer, where the monstrous Christmas tree still glistened, the ballroom doors were wide open. The noise of the crowd and music sounded more like a concert than a party.

When they managed to squeeze into the room among the throng of bodies, Clint discovered it _was_ a concert. A stage was set up, complete with singer and back-up dancers. A singer Clint took a moment to recognize. He squinted, not believing his eyes. "Wait, is that-"

"Yup!" Pepper shouted (shouting was the only way to be heard, even leaning in). "Tony's still upset that he couldn't get Beyoncé, though! He doesn't understand why someone would pass him over for Time's Square!"

"I can't imagine!" Clint shouted back.

"Professor and Mary Anne!" Tony walked through the room easily, the crowd parting like he was Moses at the Red Sea. His wide grin fell once he took them in. "You don't have drinks! Pepper, what's my rule? No one with an empty hand!"

Like magic, Pepper had a pair of champagne flutes and held them out to them. Her smile was apologetic.

"Just take it to shut him up, you don't have to drink it," Phil advised.

Satisfied that they had alcohol in hand, Stark nodded. He took a drink from the scotch he'd been carrying. He started talking, but as the song ended, the roaring cheers from the audience drowned him out.

"What?" Clint tried. "You know, it's kinda hard to hold a conversation in here!"

"Oh! Well, then you'll want to be in the VIP area!"

"Oh yeah, and where's that?"

"It's the Cavern, man!"

Phil lit up at that. He tugged on Clint's arm. "Come on. Let's get out of here, I've been wanting to see your work!"

Clint and Phil had their fingers laced together, gripping tight as so not to lose each other as the pushed through the tightly packed bodies. They managed to make it to the hallway, Clint feeling like he could finally breathe.

"Which way?" Phil asked.

Clint led him through familiar halls. The main doors for the Cavern were roped off, with Happy standing guard. "Hey, Clint!" Happy greeted.

Clint hadn't spent much time around Stark's head of security. But he liked him. They exchanged pleasantries when their paths crossed on the grounds. He had been the one to give Clint and his crew their codes for the gates, and occasionally had to be the bearer of Tony's changes when he or Pepper were too busy. He was as long suffering and loyal as every person Stark kept around.

Happy unclipped the rope, and let Clint and Phil pass. With the doors shut behind them, the music from the ballroom was muted to the dull thud of the bass.

"Clint, it's amazing! I can't believe you actually did all this!" I mean," Phil quickly added, "not that I thought you couldn’t. But that you accomplished all of Stark's crazy ideas. There really is a basketball court!"

Phil's being impressed puffed-up Clint's pride in his work than he ever felt before. His praise was worth more than Tony's outrageous bonuses.

The Cavern was already occupied, and much to Clint's relief, by people he and Phil knew. Thor and Prof. Banner were on the center of the sofa, playing Mario Kart. The usually quiet Banner was cursing up a blue streak though, as a shell came careening towards his Luigi. Thor's girlfriend, Jane, sat next to him, unaffected by the commotion, flipping through a science journal. Melinda was sitting on one end of the sofa, watching the game with a slight smile.

Nick was pouring drinks at the bar. He was the first to notice their entrance. "Put that weak-ass bubbly down. I'll get you something real."

Steve, Sam, and Col. Rhodes were sitting around the casino-style card table, probably exchanging war stories. Bucky seemed conspicuous in his absence. When Clint asked him about it later, Steve explained that after Christmas Eve Bucky learned he still wasn't good with large crowds, nor the promised fireworks. Still, Clint wondered at Natasha's true reasons for skipping out tonight. Steve's head turned at the sound of Nick's voice, and he immediately stood up and started over to Clint.

"You made it!" He greeted, shaking Clint's hand. "And you must be Phil, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." Steve was smiling and looking irritatingly gorgeous.

Next to Clint, Phil had gone a bit wide-eyed, and his cheeks pinked. Clint resisted groaning and rolling his eyes. He did however slip a very proprietary arm around Phil's waist.

"I'm Steve Rogers." He held out his hand.

Phil made a choked-off noise. "Really?"

Steve ducked his head and grimaced. "Yeah. Please, I've heard it all before."

Steve's clear discomfort seemed to have smacked Phil out of his daze. He finally took Steve's hand and shook it. "Sorry. Must be very annoying."

Steve nodded. "It was worse when I was still active in the army, but I wasn't going to let my name and another man's accomplishments stop me from doing what I needed to."

Phil went a little starry-eyed again. "Of course not."

"Hey, look, Melinda wants to talk to you. Excuse us, Steve."

Steve let them go. Clint dragged Phil away in the direction to where Melinda was sitting. "Well, that went as well as I feared," Clint grouched.

"What? Did I do something wrong?"

"Other than making goo goo eyes at him?"

"I didn't-" Phil began to protest. "Are you jealous?" Clint glowered, but didn't answer. "You know, you were the one who told me everyone you worked with was built. You think I didn't occasionally feel insufficient?"

"Built is one thing. Steve is another. Especially with your Captain America thing."

"An admiration for a long-dead war hero cum comic book character does not mean I'm going to run off with every large blond named Steve."

"I know, I know." And logically, and in his heart of hearts, Clint knew that. Knew that Phil loved him. And knew it would be hypocritical to be upset that Phil was dazzled by someone like Steve, when Clint himself had acknowledged how attractive he was.

Clint sat down, pulling Phil with him, so that he was practically in his lap. Melinda was side-eying them. "You both have terrible inadequacy issues," she said.

"No," Phil said to her, "you're not allowed to play couples counselor."

"She ain't wrong," Nick said handing them their drinks. "Both of you spend too much time still wondering if you're good enough for each other."

"You don't know me." Really, Clint had maybe three full conversations with the man, one of which was laced with detailed threats.

Nick grinned. "Maybe not, but your best friend does. And she talks to one of my best friends who in turn talks to me."

Dammit, Nat. And damn Melinda, too. She wasn't looking at all apologetic. In fact, she looked smug. "We have terrible friends."

"Yes," Phil agreed. "They need new hobbies so they have something more to talk about than us."

Everyone in the Cavern took their turns playing video games (With varying degrees of sportsmanship) and passing out drinks. Rhodey started a scrimmage basketball game, which Phil played in for a few minutes. He wasn't half-bad, even after a couple drinks. But then, everyone was a bit less coordinated than normal by that time. Clint decided to keep his dignity and cheered from sidelines.

Flushed and sweaty from the exercise, and after another whiskey, Phil fell back onto the sofa. Clint sat down and manhandled Phil so his head was resting comfortingly on Clint's thigh. Melinda grabbed Phil's feet and put them across her lap. It was definitely nice, being this comfortable out with Phil, and among their friends. He idly stroked his fingers through Phil's soft hair, feeling like the luckiest bastard in the world.

"Half an hour to go," Maria Hill informed them, flopping down next to Clint. "Gotta find someone to kiss soon."

"Pretty sure I'm all set, here," Clint said. Phil hummed in agreement.

"If Jasper were here, I'm sure he'd be up for it," Phil told her.

Maria snorted. "I bet he would." She craned her head back over the couch. "What about that one, what's his story?" She nodded her head to where Sam was talking to Nick. his arms spread out like an airplane.

"Sam? Single, as far as I know. Has expressed attraction to women."

Maria took a fortifying sip of her rum and coke. "Right then. I'm going in."

"She'll destroy him," Phil said.

"He might like it," Clint rejoined. He looked over at Melinda. "What about you? Got your eye on anyone?"

"I'm a floater. I'll take any friend going without. I've been left with Phil more than once."

"And she tried tongue."

"Liar!" Melinda gave Phil's ankle an unfriendly squeeze.

Phil giggled; giggled! And kicked her hand away. Clint couldn't help laughing, too. The booze and comradery was leaving him warm and punchy. He felt great, and never wanted that feeling go away.

About ten minutes to midnight, Pepper came into the room. She was looking a little frazzled, but was clearly the most sober person in the room if not the entire house (except maybe Melinda who had nursed one glass of red wine all night). "Tony wants everyone in the ballroom for the countdown," she announced. "Bruce, Steve," she sighed, "Tony especially requests your presence."

Bruce and Steve frowned at each other in confusion, but started to follow Pepper anyway. Rhodey was right behind, and took Pepper's arm in his. She smiled up at him, and he winked. Thor and Jane left next, Sam and Maria behind them. Phil pulled Clint up, both stumbling and giggling. Nick put his arm around Melinda's shoulders.

Clint lost their friends back in the crush of the ballroom. The music had stopped, the pop star and her dancers stepped aside to let Tony take center stage. "Everyone have their drink?" The crowd roared, holding up full flutes over their heads. A passing waiter pressed glasses into Clint's and Phil's hands.

"Everyone have a partner for midnight?" Tony continued. The crowd cheered louder, several wolf whistles pierced through the air.

A laser projected digital clock appeared behind stark in big green digits. They had a minute to go. Stark killed time telling a lewd joke until it reached twenty seconds. Then the countdown began. Grinning madly, Clint shouted along, anticipation coursing through him.

"THREE! TWO! ONE!" Stark jumped off the stage, landing in front of familiar blond and curly heads.

Clint and Phil turned to each other. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" Clint nearly rammed his nose into Phil's in his eagerness. They laughed it off, and managed to fit together properly, Clint trying to pour everything this past year (or at least last half of it) meant to him, and all his hopes for the future. They were both gasping for breath when they parted, Clint kept a hand behind Phil's neck, keeping their foreheads together. Bright, shiny confetti and balloons fell all around them. He vaguely registered a synth-pop version of "Auld Lang Syne" playing in the background above the rattle and buzz of noisemakers.

After several more refills of Stark's expensive champagne, Clint could only remember staggering out into the cold night air, being held up by a strong arm in a black leather jacket. It was flurrying, and fireworks were going off close-by. He was tossed into the backseat of a car. Phil was there, too. His eyes were closed. Voices: a man and woman.

One said, "Got this?"

The other said, "I can handle them."

He had lost his hat.

Then being where he was now: awake, but dead.

He started to groan, but it turned into a whimper at the way it scraped his throat and throbbed in his skull.

"Ah, good, you're breathing." The voice belonged to neither angel nor demon. It was Melinda. Clint tried to open his eyes to confirm, but even the slightest hint of light that laid beyond made him squeeze them shut again. He followed her progress through the room by the sound of her voice, which she was keeping blessedly quiet.

"You’re at Phil's house. His bed. He's right next you. Snoring." Oh, yeah, so that's what that grinding sound was, and not Clint's bones. "You're both in yesterday's clothes, except your shoes. I congratulate and thank you for not vomiting."

Clint wanted to say "You're welcome," but had to swallow back the nausea that came from her just mentioning vomit.

"I've stayed long enough to make sure neither of you died in your sleep." Fat load of good that did, Clint thought bitterly, but came out only as an unhappy grunt. "But," Melinda continued, unimpressed with his noises, "I need to go before the roads get any worse." His grunt this time was inquisitive. "We're under a winter storm warning. They're predicting eight to ten inches before it's done. Just as well that you're in no shape to go anywhere today."

She left the room for several minutes. Clint was almost asleep again when he heard her footsteps return. He managed to squint up at her. She was in her coat, scarf, hat and gloves. She put two glasses of water and an open bottle of aspirin on the bedside table. She reached into a pocket and pulled out two more items. "Your phone," she put down the one in a purple case. "Phil's phone." His was plain black. "If Nat, Nick or I don't hear from one of you by noon, we’re calling you. And you better answer."

Clint tried a sarcastic "Yes, ma'am," but he only wheezed.

Melinda's lips turned up a little. "You'll be alright." She left.

Clint let his eyes fall shut again. Slowly, slowly he breathed in and out. Gently, gently he tried moving his fingers, hand, then arm as he felt life return to them like a miracle. He slid his re-animated hand across pillows to poke Phil in the cheek. Phil's snoring abruptly stopped with an unpleasant snort. He blinked his eyes, and immediately flinched, turning his head to bury his face deeper into the pillows.

"Dead?" Clint asked.

"Unngh." Clint took that as a "yes."

"Me, too."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People paired-up (or tripled-up in one case) at the end of this chapter don't necessarily count as pairings in this story. Your own personal mileage may vary as to whether some of the midnight smooches were just friendly, or something more (or Tony just having his cake and eating it, too).
> 
> Next time: Clint and Phil get over their hangovers just in time to deal with the first wave of the Snowpocalypse. 
> 
> Have a safe and happy New Year Everyone!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still New Year's Day, and Clint and Phil have a hell of a hangover to get over before they can even think of dealing with the snow storm raging outside!

Sitting up was a slow and delicate process. With every shift of limb, Clint had to pause and take deep breaths through his nose, and flinch against his brain knocking into the side of his skull. To his left, a couple choked-off whimpers told that Phil was having a similar experience. Being closer to upright than he had been all morning, Clint rewarded himself by closing his eyes again, leaning is head back against the headboard.

"Water? Pills?" Phil croaked.

Clint slit open an eye to discover Phil had also managed the monumental feat of sitting. He opened the other eye to get a look at the treasures Melinda left at the side table. He passed a bottle of water and the bottle of aspirin over, taking a couple pills out for himself on the way. They sat in silence, waiting for the pain relievers to kick in.

When he felt he could do so without it falling off, Clint turned his head and found Phil already looking at him. He was smiling. "What?" Clint groused, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"You look like a zombie," Phil told him, fondly.

Well, if he was looking as green-skinned and red-eyed as Phil, then he was probably right. And if being able to see each other like that, looking and feeling the worst they ever had around each other, and still gaze at each other with fondness and not disgust, that had to be real love. If there was ever a moment for scales to fall or have the magic ruined, this was the time. Clint wanted to kiss him, but he really wanted to brush his teeth first. Just because Phil can love Clint the way he was, Clint couldn't stand himself and was going to draw the line there.

Instead he reached out a hand and grabbed Phil's, entwining their fingers together between them.

Another ten minutes passed before anyone moved. Phil disentangled his fingers from Clint and explained, "Bathroom."

"Good luck with that."

Phil grunted, then groaned, half-rolling out of the bed. Once he got to his feet, he thankfully stayed there, but kept a hand against the wall as he shuffled out of the room.

Clint picked up his phone, remembering Melinda's threat of what would happen if no one heard from them before noon. He texted Nat a happy New Year and assurance both he and Phil were breathing and moving. After sending that, he investigated the winter storm warning alert that was blinking in one corner of the screen. Eight to ten inches (if not more in isolated areas), like Melinda said. The local radar was a blob of dark blue with no breaks.

He heard the shower start from the other side of the wall. It motivated Clint to finally attempt getting out of bed. Carefully, he peeled himself out of last night's clothes. He dropped them in a heap onto the floor. The effort of their removal had been too much and he fell back naked onto the bed.

"Tempting, but I'd probably get seasick."

Clint snorted. "Gross. And I'm not offering. Just taking a break." He watched Phil go to the dresser. He had his navy blue robe wrapped tightly around himself. His hair was damp and his skin regained some color from the shower.

Phil rooted around the drawers and started pulling out clothing. A pair of sweatpants and a college hoodie was flung Clint's way. Pulling the shirt off his face, Clint watched Phil pull on his jeans with his robe still on, which was very unkind, but the room was kinda cold, so understandable. A cold Clint was starting to notice himself the longer he laid there. It was motivation enough to make him get moving.

"Think you'll want coffee if I make some?" Phil asked, pulling a brown sweater over his head.

Clint's stomach only churned a little, so he figured maybe it could handle it. "Yeah. Oh, you should call Melinda," Clint told him, forcing his legs to take him towards the bathroom.

The hot shower went a long way to making him feeling like a proper human being again. The water loosed stiff limbs, the steam cleared his head and eased the pressure behind his eyes. He still needed to take a moment after washing, and sat on the closed toilet lid with towels wrapped around him for several minutes before he felt ready to get properly dressed.

Clint found Phil in the living room, steaming coffee mug in hand, and frowning out the window. Clint came up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his face into the soft fabric on Phil's shoulder. Phil leaned back into the embrace, making Clint take some of his weight.

"Feeling better?" Phil asked.

Clint grunted. Sight-unseen he ran a hand along Phil's arm until he could wrap his fingers around the hand holding the coffee mug. With a low chuckle, Phil relented his grip and let Clint take it. Clint lifted his head to take his drink, and in doing so finally got a good look out the window. He whistled low. The snow was falling thick and fast. The wind was blowing it so hard, it was practically falling horizontal from the sky. He could barely make out the form of the houses across the street.

"I talked to Melinda. She congratulates us again on our survival, and assured me she got home before it became this bad," Phil told him.

"Remind me again why I decided not to settle down somewhere tropical?"

"Because you love the changing seasons. Because this was where Natasha is."

Clint gave Phil's middle a squeeze. "And where you are."

"Didn't know me until you already made your decision."

"Yeah, but," Clint took another drink of coffee from over Phil's shoulder. "Maybe, I dunno, the stars were aligning to make sure I took the house next door."

Phil turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. "You think it was destiny?"

Clint hid his face away into Phil's shoulder again and shrugged. "Maybe," he muttered, muffled.

Phil clasped his hands around the Clint had rested against Phil's stomach. He hummed, but didn't disagree.

They spent most of the day being quiet and moving slow. Phil went about gathering blankets, testing flashlights, and collected any candles he had (mostly pine-scented gifts from years of well-meaning colleagues at Christmas).

"It's plenty warm enough in here," Clint said, eyeing the laden coffee table.

"But not if the power goes out. Tree limbs get too heavy and fall on power lines, or if the wind takes them."

Clint couldn't help grumbling again about not passing the season in more habitable climes.

After a lunch of soup and toast, there was an impromptu nap on the couch. The extra bit of sleep did wonders. Clint climbed off Phil and stretched, going on his toes, finger tips reaching for the ceiling. He relaxed his arms back down with a happy sigh. Yeah, take that hangover!

He turned around to see if Phil was feeling equally rejuvenated. He was still on the sofa, looking out the window again, frown deeper than it had been earlier that morning. "We're going to have to go out at some point. If we wait till it's over, it'll be impossible to clear."

To make his point, a flashing yellow light and loud scraping heralded the passing of a street plow piling several inches of more snow and sludge into the end of their driveways.

Clint wriggled his bare toes against the carpet. The only outerwear he had in Phil's house was the coat he wore to Stark's last night, and maybe a pair of gloves as long as they hadn't fallen out of the pockets. Nor did he have boots. He wasn't entirely sure he'd make it the short distance to his door without getting buried.

Phil gave him that look like he was reading his mind. It was something he was getting scarily good at for better or worse. He probably picked up some pointers from Nat. "I'll go out first, get our path cleared off." He stood and stretched, back audibly popping. "Let's just hope the blower feels like starting today."

Phil's snow blower was a beast of a machine that Clint had thought unnecessary when Phil brought it out earlier in the season. But now Clint understood that the large red maw was made for this kind of weather, and Phil had it from years of experience. Clint's little machine he bought cheap seemed fine when they had gotten no more than three inches at a time in the past month.

Clint felt a little bad about Phil going out first. He assuaged his guilt by helping him gear-up. Puffy snow pants, boots, hat, gloves, and scarf covered Phil entirely, going on layer by layer like a knight donning armor. He looked like a giant, black marshmallow.

Clint zipped the coat up for him and give him a kiss on the nose through the scarf. "My hero."

Phil rolled his eyes.

He unlocked the inside door which swung inwards. The storm door was more difficult. Phil had to put his shoulder in it to push it open against the build up of snow the wind pressed against the house. The wind howled and more than a few flakes made it through the small gap in the door. Phil jumped out into the storm, and Clint quickly shut the doors behind him.

From the window, Phil was a moving black form just visible in the swirling wall of white. Clint waited to hear the small engine sputter then rev to life. He sighed in relief. Phil had admitted that his machine could be a little touchy, and crossed his fingers every time he yanked the chord.

Clint changed back into last night’s pants and stole an extra pair of socks from Phil’s dresser. He peered out the window again. A long arc of snow cascaded through the air as Phil made his way from the garage. He diverged from his course down the driveway to cut a path from his back steps through Clint’s yard.

Clint put the hood of the sweater up before sliding on his coat. Phil waved his arm and Clint flung open the door and made a mad dash, running past Phil who continued trundling along his own driveway, the path he cleared already filling.

The shoes Clint wore to Stark’s party were entirely unsuitable. The snow on his own porch was more than ankle-deep, and his feet were soaked. Getting inside his own house, he quickly shucked the shoes and peeled the socks off. The bottoms of his pants were just as wet and removed those while still standing in his kitchen. He swore profusely as the wet cold clinging to his skin met with warmth indoors, the extreme temperature change assaulting his nerves.

All he wanted to do now was put on dry pajamas and hide away from the world. Hibernating until spring seemed ideal. Who in their right mind would go outdoors again?

The continued buzz of snow blowers close-by and in the distance reminded him that was not an option.

Starting with the long johns Nat insisted he buy (and now he's grateful she did), he made himself ready to face the elements, purple snow pants (Nat had commented she didn't know they made them in that color in adult sizes), hat, scarf and all. By the time he made it back out, Phil was already working on the sidewalks. Clint opened his garage and started up his much smaller (but who's comparing sizes?) blower. His garage was set closer to the house, and therefore didn't have too a long a driveway as it was.

Pushing the little blower through the heavy snow was becoming quite the workout. Added to that, the way some flakes finagled their way under his collar despite his hat and scarf was causing a trickling discomfort down his back.

He finished the walks in front of his house, and decided he was done. The front porch steps could go hang. He switched off the snow blower. The snow kept falling, obscuring his view of the neighborhood. Apart from passing plows, the street was (thankfully) devoid of traffic, adding to the eerie hush of the darkening day.

"Hey, you want to spend the night at mine?" Clint asked, meeting with Phil at the property border. "I'll switch on the fireplace, make hot cocoa..."

"Sounds good, but..." Phil made a show of shoving snow off his shoulder.

"Wet clothes and all. I don't mind. You end up doing my laundry all the time anyway.

"Let me grab a couple things?"

Clint watched Phil turn away, and not for the first time considered building a tunnel under their houses, connecting their basements. It would be terribly convenient.

Clint pulled off his outerwear and threw it all down the basement steps. The long johns were too hot inside, so he got rid of those, redressing in the borrowed hoodie and his favorite flannel pants. In the living room he switched on the electric fireplace, the fake logs started glowing and a faint, crackling popped on. He pulled the cushions off his sofa and dropped them on the floor, close to the heat.

He was in the kitchen, heating milk on the stove. The cocoa mix was a blend Steve had given him for Christmas, stating it was his mother's secret recipe. Clint was fairly certain the secret was cinnamon. That's when Phil tromped in, and immediately starting melting inside the door. "Everything wet, toss down the stairs, I'll get to it later."

Piece by piece, Phil removed his sopping garments. His hair fluffed up adorably from the static of his knit cap, and despite the scarf he unwrapped from around his face, his cheeks and nose were pink and chapped. Clint knew too well how it actually hurt going from the cold to the warmth, and decided to leave off telling him he looked cute.

Once Phil was finally unencumbered, Clint hustled him into the living room, practically shoving him down on the cushions. He plucked a couple candy canes off his Christmas tree and plopped them into the steaming mugs of chocolate before handing one to Phil. He didn't drink it at first, just stuck his nose close and let the steam thaw him out a bit more. Clint grabbed his big purple blanket, wrapping it around both of them.

They leaned into each other, basking in the warmth and each other's presence. Phil finished his drink and set it on the coffee table behind them before settling himself further into Clint's side, wrapping on arm around his waist, head on Clint's shoulder. Clint tucked the blanket tighter around them.

"You gonna fall asleep?"

Phil hummed an affirmative. "I'm being quite effectively lulled."

"You're going to hate yourself if we fall asleep on the floor."

"Don't care. No more moving. Until spring."

Hibernating it was then.

\------

The storm ceased sometime overnight. The sun came out the next day, brilliant and blinding in a clear blue sky and reflecting off the generous amount of sparkling white on the ground. Smaller trees were bent nearly double and branches of larger trees drooped under the great weight of nearly a foot of snow.

With the work they did the previous day, clearing the walk and majority of the driveways was not as much of a chore Clint had feared. With one exception. The city snow plows did there job and cleared the streets, but heaped it all up at the end of their driveways. It was piled-up so high, it reached above Clint's knees. There were large, dirty chunks of ice scattered through out the deep layers, some bigger than their heads, that Clint could pick up with two hands.

"I don't think my blower can even get through it. Unless we want to send it on a suicide mission."

"Heaven forbid! We could shovel it out? One layer at a time?"

Phil rolled his already sore shoulders (he had warned him about falling asleep on the floor!) and grimaced. "We could call a plowing business? Though I'm sure they're all already booked up for the day."

One such truck made a careful turn down their street. It came to a slow stop on the slick road, bumping the mound of slush that was once the curb. The passenger door tried to open, but immediately hit the unmovable mound. A familiar voice swore, then the door shut again. The window rolled down instead. "...On purpose, moron." Nat was saying to the driver, while another familiar voice laughed. "Hey, boys, need a hand?" She said, sticking her head out the window with a smirk.

Phil held a hand over his eyes, giving the truck and its plow a considering look. The driver's door opened and closed, and Bucky sauntered around the front. He leaned against the plow attachment, giving it a pat. "What do you think? Bought it with my Christmas bonus!"

"It's a life-saver," Clint said with deep gratitude.

Bucky laughed. "That's what Steve said."

"We've spent the morning digging out addresses on Steve's Meals on Wheels route." Natasha said.

"We?" Clint pointedly repeated at her. She stuck her tongue out at him.

"It's very kind of you," Phil said diplomatically.

"Hey, we haven't met yet." Bucky leaned across the snowy barrier, Clint was afraid he was going to lean too far and fall in. "Bucky. Worked with Clint on the Stark monstrosity."

Phil took the offered hand. "Phil. The boyfriend." He said it easily, and they both had agreed it was a label neither mind using. Still, hearing it aloud from him made Clint's stomach flutter as if he was in middle school and got the "do you like me?" note back with the "yes" box checked.

Clint and Phil got out of the way, watching from Phil's freshly swept and shoveled front porch. "So, Natasha and this Bucky. Is this a...thing?"

Clint shrugged. "Hell if I know. I've never seen her be with a guy for more than one night, much less be out in the daytime with him. So...maybe?"

"She doesn't say anything to you?"

"Maybe because she hasn't decided for herself. Nothing to declare, you know?"

"I could ask Melinda."

"Who will tell you _nothing_." Phil raised a brow at him. "Sisters before misters, yo." Clint gazed out over at his yard, an untouched canvass, almost too perfect to want to even step in and disturb its pretty stillness. And yet, "Hey, Phil," he began with a smirk. "You wanna build a snowmaaaan?" He started to sing. 

Phil grimaced. "Clint-"

"I doesn't have to be a snowmaaaaaa-"

"Only if you don't sing anything from that movie."

It had been a very long time since Clint could remember trying to do this. The mechanics were not quite as easy as the cartoons made it look. Like you could just start rolling snow up like a carpet and it'd form a ball. Phil showed him how it was more like just packing a large snowball. Although the snow was wet enough, it was easier to make it stick with your hands and not relying on its self-adhesiveness.

Clint was rounding out what was going to become the torso piece when something hard and cold smacked him in the back of his head. He shot a look up at Phil, but he was crouched in front of him, starting to make the head. So unless he learned to bend physics to his will, he was not the culprit. He was however, looking very amused.

Clint turned around and discovered Bucky standing across the yard, another snowball in his hand. Next to him, Natasha was forming more ammo. "Shit. Phil, head for cover!" They scrambled, not easily in the deep snow, and crowded behind their half-formed snowman. The poor creation was immediately pelted by a volley of snowballs.

And so started the snowball fight. Nat and Bucky had excellent aim, but nothing compared to Clint's. Phil turned out not too shabby himself, demonstrating the strength Clint knew he had in those lovely arms, giving back as well he got. There was much cursing and shrieking, and the Clint couldn't remember the last time he had ever had such pure, simple fun. It was all perhaps not the sort of the behavior a group of adults _ought_ to be participating in. But to hell with that. Why was playing for the sake of playing something that wasn't allowed past a certain age? 

A truce was forced when Bucky's phone rang. It was Steve requiring more of his help. Clint convinced him and Nat to stay just a little longer, get them some hot coffee to go in thanks for their help.

He and Phil finished the snowman best they could. A couple of decent size sticks that broke off the trees during the storm made great arms. Clint had charcoal in his garage leftover from summer cook outs for eyes and buttons. Unfortunately, they had no carrots, so he go charcoal for a nose as well. Clint pressed it into the "face" and took a step back.

The snowman was kind of lopsided, his arms sticking out at uneven angles, and the eyes were set a little too far apart. He was imperfect, but he was theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Ice skating and unhappy reunions.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cameos by Kate and Skye!  
> Ice skating!  
> An unhappy return! (uh oh)  
> Phil's friends are awesome!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it comes, the moment you've all been biting your nails over, I'm sure.  
> Includes John Garrett/Grant Ward (you may remember in [Falling in Autumn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2596451) Maria Hill mentioning "that malleable, sharp-cheeked twink he's hooked up with.")
> 
> But do enjoy some winter-time fluff beforehand!

The college's winter break was coming to an end. That meant Nat and Phil were busy getting ready for the new semester. Clint had already been back to work of a sorts, giving instruction at the archery range to the slew of post-holiday beginners. He had been given the later-teens age group, probably because the owner knew how well Clint got along with one of the range's teenaged regulars.

His friendly banter with Kate, a high school senior and an already accomplished archer, did not necessarily mean he was actually "good" with others in her age group, but that's what he got. He worked at the range two days a week and had two-hour classes in the afternoon, after school.

Among those in his first class were two girls, hair done back in a long braid who greeted each other with a three finger salute. On the second day, one boy arrived wearing arm guards with a white tree design on them.

From both groups he clearly heard tittering and whispering about his arms (and other parts of his anatomy), when he gave demonstrations on stance and form. It was embarrassing and dreadful, but he also knew the ones not focusing on the actual instructions were the most likely to drop out quickest.

"Posers," Kate sniffed with a roll of her eyes as the class left the range. She gave the two kids debating something about Sindarin versus Silvan elves a condescending look.

"Come on, it's not like you didn't see it somewhere else first before you wanted to try it. Why does it matter if it's a fantasy movie, the Olympics, Errol Flynn-"

"Errol Flynn? What are you, eighty?"

"Or inspired by the stories of Diana, goddess of the hunt."

Kate drew her bow and let the arrow fly, hitting the target (moved much further back than where it was during class) dead center. "Classical references now? Your professor boyfriend teach you that?"

"You wouldn't _believe_ the sort of things he's been teaching me," he said with exaggerated lewdness. 

Kate scrunched her face up in typical "Eww old people talking about sex!" disgust. "Forget I said anything. In fact, stop talking to me all together."

Clint laughed. "Don't do anything I wouldn't. Like miss."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and without turning her head, hit the bullseye.

\-----

"It's been a while since we've gone out." Phil said, watching TV, pressed against Clint's side and reaching for the bag of Cheetos in Clint's lap.

"Because if we went out, we'd die." After the New Year's snow storm, temperatures plummeted. The wind chill had gotten to levels where being outside for more than ten minutes could lead to frostbite and hypothermia.

"It might get close to thirty this weekend."

"Oh my god, how is that something to look forward to? What are your people's standards?"

Phil laughed. "It's all relative. And lifelong Midwesterners might be a bit delusional. But the recent cold means the river lagoon's properly frozen over for once. It's no Rockefeller, but how do you feel about ice skating?"

"I know how, if that's what you mean. Been a while, though." Since the last time Nat's managed to drag him to a rink.

"It'll be fun. I promise."

Clint wasn't so sure. His previous experiences of being outside in the cold and trying to navigate slippery surfaces could hardly be counted as "fun." But something else that wasn't fun was the crushing guilt Clint was starting to feel. After all, how often had Clint dragged Phil outdoors for seasonal activities? Then he recalled what Phil told him about the previous guy in his life always shooting down Phil's date ideas.

So yeah, if Phil wanted to go ice skating, they were going to go ice skating. Besides, doing anything with Phil made it automatically more enjoyable than otherwise.

When they got out of the car by the riverside park, Clint had to begrudgingly admit that thirty degrees did feel practically balmy after the week's worth of frigidity. The lack of wind helped. Clint sighed to himself, as they walked from the parking lot down to the lagoon. He had gone native.

They entered the little brick services building. It offered a place to warm-up and bathrooms. In the summer they rented paddle boats and sold novelty ice creams. Now, in the dead of winter they had coffee, cocoa, and rented ice skates. The tile floor was padded in protective rubber.

The dark-haired young woman behind the counter lit up when she glanced away from the her phone and saw them. "P.C.! Of all the skate parks in all the world!"

Phil was smiling right back, albeit more reserved. "Hello, Skye. How was your break?"

She made a "pfft" noise, ruffling her bangs. "Boring. Can't wait for classes to start, honestly. I've been staying in the dorms, but can't do my work study with the computer labs closed. So I got this cushy gig. How's your break going?" She asked, eyes sliding to Clint with naked curiosity.

Phil cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. Skye, this is Clint. Clint, Skye was in my intro class last semester."

"And miraculously passed."

"You only have your own hard work to thanks," Phil said, tone edged with pride.

"Yeah, my hard work," she drawled, gaze flickering over Clint again with a smirk. Great, like he didn’t have to deal with enough ogling teens from his own classes. "You know they say the students get better grades when the teacher is in a good mood."

Phil cleared his throat again, face going slightly pink. "Yes, well. Skates?"

Skye straightened up, going back into what she must have considered her business mode. "Sure thing, teach," she said, throwing Clint a wink before turning away to grab their rentals.

Orange snow fencing lined the edges of the bean shaped lagoon. The frozen water wasn't terribly crowded. Most of the people on the ice were skating leisurely, doing laps around the perimeter with varying degrees of confidence. A couple people had broken off towards the center of the lagoon to do jumps and spins. One of them, a tall, handsome, young man with noticeable skill and grace had a cluster of girls up on the bank clapping (muffled by their mittens) and giggling. But the man didn’t seem to notice them.

Clint and Phil joined the flow of circling skaters. Clint was relieved that ice skating was a bit like riding a bike. It was just a matter of balance and keeping forward momentum as one foot glided in front of the other, the rhythmic scraping of the blades almost soothing. The air rushing past was bracing instead of biting. Phil grabbed his hand so that they kept pace with each other.

Phil would occasionally spin around and skate backwards so he could talk to Clint easier. The simple confidence Phil displayed, managing to not knock into anyone while not looking where he was going should not be especially attractive. But then, Phil's unconscious, easy competence was just one of his many aspects that Clint adored about him.

Phil pulled Clint away from the main flow of skaters, and grabbed both his hands at arm's length, crossing their wrists. Clint wasn't so sure he was ready for what Phil clearly had in mind, but after a few careful step, Clint was caught up in the momentum, and Phil's smile and let himself be spun around, following Phil's lead, certain Phil wouldn't set him adrift.

"Well, hell, Phil Coulson, I thought that was you!"

A voice with a distinctly Southern accent made Phil lose his footing. Their laughter and spinning abruptly stopped, leaving Clint a little dizzy. But he managed to not slide too far away when Phil let him go. He grabbed onto Phil and helped keep him upright, but Phil's eyes had widened, and color drained from his face.

A man appeared at their side. He was taller than Clint, his face round yet rugged.

"John?" Phil gasped.

Clint's stomach dropped. He kept a hand on Phil's elbow. The rest of the skaters continued to swish past them, adding to the spinning Clint's world was currently experiencing.

"W-what are you doing here?" Phil managed to ask. 

"Didn't you get my card? Or don't you live in your momma's house anymore?" His voice and expression would have been friendly and jovial, except there was an unsettling glint in his eye. The seemingly innocent question was laced with unpleasant mischief.

Garrett's eyes flicked down to where Clint continued to grip Phil's arm. "Well, now," he said, still smiling, but eyes hardening. "Aren't you going to introduce me to the new beau?"

"I'm Clint," he offered, trying to make it sound like a warning. "I know who you are."

Garrett chuckled, flashing two rows of perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. "Well, it's nice to be remembered."

"Well, we need to be leaving," Phil said, pulling at Clint as he tried to slide away.

"Hang on now. Since you showed me yours, it'd be rude of me not to show you mine." Garrett whistled sharply through his teeth. Like a dog being summoned, the tall, graceful skater immediately stopped performing his tricks and came to Garrett's side. Up close, Clint saw just how young he was. He looked like he ought to be sitting next to Skye in one of her classes.

Garret threw an arm around the young man's shoulders. "Grant, say hello to Phil and Clint: friends old and new."

Clint sneered at the use of the word "friend," and Phil practically growled.

Grant, seemingly oblivious to their reaction, stuck a hand out. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sirs." Yeah, he looked about as pleased as a cat in a vet's office.

It had to be Phil's instinctual politeness that compelled him to take the young man's hand. The gesture was quick, and once it was over, Phil repeated, "Yes, well, we do need to leave."

Clint happily let himself be pulled away. Garrett, the rat, grinned and waved saying, "See you around!" Clint turned his head enough to shoot him a hateful glare, but it only served to make Garrett grin more.

Maybe the unsteadiness of their steps could have been blamed on walking with skates on, and readapting to stepping instead of gliding. Phil sat heavily on the bench back inside the service building, tremoring fingers unlacing his ice skates. Clint left him to sit and took the skates back to the counter and to retrieve their shoes.

Skye's brow crinkled. "What happened?" She asked, noticing her teacher's change in demeanor.

"Nothing. Just a little worn out from all the fresh air and exercise." Clint tried to smile reassuringly, but her incredulous expression proved that he didn't.

After they got their shoes back on, Skye came out from her counter, two steaming cups in her hands. "Here, on the house."

"Oh, that's not-" Phil tried to protest.

She backed off before either of them could dare take their wallets out. "See you 'round campus, P.C." She said in farewell.

They'd taken Phil's car, but he passed the keys to his salt-covered black sedan to Clint. The drive home was short and silent. Phil clutched the Styrofoam cup in one hand, never drinking form it. Clint kept his on the wheel, no matter how much he wanted to reach out.

They pulled into the garage, and Clint couldn't keep his distance. Once out of the car, Clint immediately went around and gathered Phil up in a hug. Phil leaned into it without reservation, squeezing back. They stood there like that for several minutes.

"What do you need from me?" Clint asked quietly into his ear.

"Just this," Phil said, face against the collar of Clint's coat. "Just you. Being here." Phil's hands clung tighter.

"I can do that. I got you."

They eventually made it out of the garage. Without having to talk about it, they by-passed Phil's door and went to Clint's house to stay the night. Garrett merely asking about it made the cozy sanctuary of Phil's family home feel violated.

Clint kept his own thoughts and questions on the situation to himself, giving Phil space and time to sort through his own feelings. As the afternoon progressed, his shock and distress gave way to anger. "How dare he!"

Clint was relieved at the verbal explosion, his own feelings bending more in that direction. "What do you need from me?" Clint asked again, only mildly concerned that his tone made it sound like he was willing to help hide a body.

Phil took a deep breath through his nose. "I need.... To keep a clear head about this. He could only be back for a couple of days, for God knows what. And that was the last and only time I'll see him again."

"But..." Clint encouraged.

"But, we need to talk to Nick and Melinda."

\----

Clint had never been in Melinda May's house before. He wished it was under better circumstances. Then he would feel more comfortable asking her about the display case filled with porcelain cats in her dining room. Because seriously, that collection was more incongruous with Clint's image of her than the knitting had been.

It was the day after the incident at the riverside park. Clint had made sure Phil had spent the rest of the previous evening feeling loved, supported and safe. Neither of them had gotten much sleep. Phil called Nick as early on a Sunday morning as he dared. He only said two words on the phone: "John's back." And the string of curses that came over the other end had been magnificent. He made the same call to Melinda, but the result was a tense silence followed by a quiet command, "You're coming over here, now."

Which lead to the four of them in Melinda's feline-adorned dining room. Phil and Melinda were sitting across from each other at the table, Clint stood over Phil's shoulder, and Nick was pacing the length of the room behind Melinda, expression matching his name.

"What is he doing here? For how long?" She asked, stone-faced, hands clasped over the table.

"I don't know! I didn't exactly feel like hanging around and having a catch-up chat."

She nodded sympathetically. "And he hasn't attempted contact until now?"

Clint scoffed. "Well, other than that Christmas card?"

"What. Card?" Nick asked darkly, leaning over, pressing his palms flat against the table top.

Clint swallowed. "Ah. You didn’t tell them." Phil looked up at him, grimacing. "I'll just be over here chewing on my toes." Clint did take a step back, edging closer to the curious display case.

Phil sighed and turned to his two best friends. "John sent me a Christmas card. I immediately threw it away and decided to forget about. I didn't say anything because I knew you'd make a big deal out of it."

"Well, it's a big deal now!"

"What," Clint asked, "do you think is the end game for him here? I mean, he's got himself some new young thing trailing after him. He wouldn't bring him along if he still as designs on Phil."

"New boyfriend or not," Melinda said, "to him, Phil's the one that got away."

"And less Nicholas Sparks and more in a Hermann Melville sort of way," Nick elaborated.

"Or maybe he'll be three hundred miles away again by tomorrow and we're worrying about nothing," Phil tried.

Melinda frowned. "Maybe." She clearly didn't believe it. "We'll all keep an eye out."

Nick clenched his fists and banged his knuckles once against the table. "Classes start tomorrow and I got to deal with that smarmy asshole and all. He better not show one hair on his greasy head around my campus."

"And I'm home most days. Can make sure no locks or windows get broken this time," Clint added.

Phil looked at them all, eyes shining a little. "Thank you for your concern, but-"

"You're welcome," Melinda said, "and no 'buts.' We're not coddling you, Phil. We're looking after our own."

In that moment she reminded him so much of Nat, that Clint's heart swelled. Looking at Nick, too, he realized he could no longer think of them as just "Phil's friends," because Clint loved them as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is going to be a bit dark for an otherwise fluffy, sappy fic. Garrett's a major creeper, and some very unpleasant revelations about him and Ward come to light.
> 
> But don't worry, by Valentine's Day we'll be back with your regularly scheduled romantic goo.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions are high with Garrett's reappearance. Is he really back in town to just "talk" to Phil about how things ended between them, or is there something more sinister behind his sudden return?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Brief, non-graphic mention of assault that includes non-consensual drugging and other non-con things.
> 
> I am _so_ sorry my tale of flufftasticness has taken a darker turn for a chapter and a half. Rest assured this fic will be wrapped up with so much hearts and flowers to make up for it.

The week began without incident. Phil was obviously trying to ascribe to an "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy, not even mentioning Garrett after leaving Melinda's. Although unspoken, the tension was there. Clint could see it in Phil, and feel it in himself. As each day passed, it should have lessened. Instead, the wait for the other shoe to drop became all the more excruciating.

There had been an understanding in their relationship, at least since it had become physical, that Clint didn't stay over on school nights (with a couple special exceptions). Clint had stayed every night that week. Phil didn't protest, and Clint took the way Phil's hands held on to his when Clint would wrap his arms around his waist, keeping Phil close as physically possible, as tacit encouragement.

The worst times for Clint was when he had to be away from the house for a couple hours and teach his archery classes. He tried to keep his mind on task, but a dark restlessness was on him, knowing he was needed elsewhere. After class, he was packing his gear with haste and little more force than necessary.

Kate whistled low as she walked in on him. "Who peed in your Froot Loops?"

Clint consciously did not slam his bow case closed.

"Seriously, you look like you're gonna go murder someone."

"My face always looks like that. We've talked about this, remember?" Clint deflected.

"Yeah, so I know Resting Barton Face. And this isn't it. Boy troubles?"

After a fashion. "Nothing for you to worry about." He picked his stuff up and walked out.

"You don't get to tell me what I can or can't worry about!" She called after him.

\---

The problem with cloudless days during the winter was that the sunlight would start melting the snow, but the air temperature would freeze it again. The result was a large and dangerous patch of ice making itself comfortable near the end of Clint's driveway.

He was chopping away at it with a long-handled ice breaker, something that looked like an unbent garden hoe. He tilted the tool to scrape under the ice and flung the larger pieces into the yard. It was tedious work, but it was keeping him occupied for a little while at least. Then he'd be back watching the clock, waiting for Phil to come home.

As it was a sunny day, there was more than a couple people out for walks. Clint would look up from his work when he noticed, saying a neighborly hello, and making sure he didn't accidentally fling ice chips into someone's eye.

One person approached whistling a jaunty tune. Clint looked up, friendly greeting turning to ash in his mouth, his grip on the breaker's wooden handle tightening. John Garrett was standing right in front of him, grinning like he hadn't a care in the world.

"And here I thought this old place would never sell," Garret said, eyes roaming over the house before landing on Clint.

"What are you doing here?"

"Can't a man, visiting his old town, take a literal walk down memory lane?"

Not when it involved hanging around his ex's house when he knew it would be unoccupied. Clint swallowed those words and just said. "Well, then maybe you'll want to keep walking."

Garrett's smile didn't falter. "Can't say I'm surprised to find you here. Not one to go far beyond his back yard, our Phil." Clint bristled at the possessive pronoun. Garrett clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Still clinging to the ghost of his momma's apron strings, then?"

Garrett's opinion of Phil was clear, and all the more evident the man never really _knew_ Phil. He was not the weak coward he was trying to insinuate. And as much as Clint wanted to defend him, he didn't want to get dragged into Garrett's conversation. He didn't want to give this asshole anything. But Garrett stood there, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly cocked to one side, looking at Clint expectedly, not seeming at all inclined to be on his way.

"What are you doing here?" Clint asked again, meaning more than just the block of sidewalk he was occupying.

"Like I said-"

"Bullshit."

The grin faded then. His scowl was quick, turning almost immediately into a smirk. "So suspicious! I can only imagine what kind of tales Phil and his friends have been telling. And this much is true: I didn't much care for how things ended between us."

"You honestly expect me to believe you're here to make amends?"

Garrett's expression darkened completely. Gone was the "we're all friends here" attitude when he dared to take a step closer. "You don’t know me son, but for the tittle-tattle of school teachers. _I_ was the injured party. _I'm_ the one that ended up in the hospital that night. Or did they not tell you that part?" 

"You mean the broken nose? I know. Good thing I don't intend to give Phil any reason to have to defend himself against me."

"One side of a story-"

"No." Clint took his own step forward, bringing the ice breaker up so the blade was at face level beside them. "Because you're wrong. I _do_ know you. Know you're kind. My father was like you. And after he died, I swore to never let anyone like that hurt the people I love again." 

Garrett sneered at the mention of "love." But then he laughed, the sound like glass scraping down Clint's spine. "You've got some balls, son. But Phil's a big boy." He tapped the side of his nose. "Why don't you let him decide if he wants to hear what I have to say?"

"And if he doesn't? You'll what, force him?"

He laughed again. "I've never forced anyone to do anything. You let him know we talked. I was going to leave this in his door," he handed him a slip of paper with the name and room number of a hotel, "but I can trust you to deliver it to him, right?" He winked. And at long last, he turned back the way he came, whistling as he walked.

Clint wanted to tear the paper up. He didn't want to mention the run-in at all to Phil. But he knew deep down, it would make him no better than the kind of manipulation he wanted to protect him from. Phil did have to make his own decisions about how he wanted to handle this, Clint couldn't make them for him.

Clint waited until after dinner that night, when they both had a mug of tea in their hands to tell him about the encounter. Phil took the news calmly, the tightening of his jaw the only sign of his displeasure. He scoffed at the piece of paper Clint passed on. "Of course he didn't care for the way things ended. It wasn't on his terms." He set the paper down, but didn't tear or crumple it up. "It's probably what all this is about. His ego. He'll try to convince me what a good idea of _his_ it was to end things." 

"He came around when he knew you wouldn't be here. That doesn't sound like a man eager to have a conversation. Besides, why bring the new boyfriend along for a make-up visit?"

"To show him off? Prove his point of how much better off he is." Phil smirked. "But I think that part backfired when he saw you. Must be really tearing him up I've moved on to so much better."

Clint smiled, and knocked their shoulders together. It caused a bit of tea to slosh over Phil's hand. Phil swore and brought it up to lick the hot liquid off, but Clint intercepted, grabbing his wrist and doing it for him. "Thanks."

"Mmm, my pleasure."

Phil sighed, tapping his fingers against the mug. "Maybe having this... Talk is the surest way to get him to leave. Ignore him, and he just keeps hanging around, getting more frustrated. I dunno."

"I don't like the idea of you alone, meeting in his hotel room. And maybe not alone, he must be sharing with the Ice Prince." Which unfortunately made unbidden notions of what Garrett and what's-his-name, Grant? Were getting up to in a hotel room.

Phil finished his tea. He took Clint's cooling, half-drank cup from his hand and set it on the coffee table. "I'll think about it later," Phil said. "Now," he kneeled up and shifted to be straddling Clint's thighs. "Make me think about something else." Phil cupped Clint's face, smoothing down the lines on Clint's forehead.

Clint put his hands on Phil's hips. Sliding them up his sides he said, "As you wish."

\----

Natasha's classes ended early on Fridays. She came around mid afternoon. "So, what's the plan?" She asked, coming through the door.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? Don't pretend you and Melinda haven't been scouting choice, dead-of-night, burying spots."

Natasha smile coyly. "Girls must have their secrets."

"And keep the boys in plausible deniability."

She pat him on the cheek. "You get it!"

"I think Phil's seriously thinking about sitting down and having a talk. Thinks it'll make him leave faster."

Natasha hummed.

"Yeah, I don't know if he's being awesomely brave or ridiculously optimistic that this will all be solved diplomatically."

"Look. I'm at least twice removed from the situation. I've never even met the guy. I'm in no position to give my opinion on what is the right thing to do here."

Clint raised his brows. "But..."

Nat licked her lips. "But clearly you and Melinda don't think it's safe. That has to count for something."

"And..."

"And what?" She shrugged. "That's just what I think."

"Yeah, you may still be able to fool Bucky when you're holding something back. But I've known you much longer. What do you know?"

She pursed her lips, probably remembering why she used to call him her bratty little brother, despite him being older than her. "I don't _know_ anything. Melinda said something about Garrett maybe having another reason for coming back besides unfinished business with Phil. She and Fury are looking into it." 

"What are you talking about?"

"Like I said, I barely know the whole story to begin with. But I think Garrett and his new boy may be more dangerous than anyone thought. Phil can't go meet him alone. Not at all would be better."

"I hope Nick and Melinda are planning on telling him all this. He should know before he makes his mind up and it's too late."

"They'll grab him before he leaves campus today."

Nat stayed and tried to keep him distracted until her phone rang. "Yeah?" She paused and listened. Her eyes slid to Clint. "I am." She nodded once. "Good. See you soon." She hung up. "That was Mel. Phil's on his way home. I should go."

She pulled out into the street a mere moment before Phil came in. Clint threw on an extra sweater, and went outside to meet him. "How're you doing?" Clint asked. The answer was obvious, though. Phil looked ill, a bit haunted.

"What did Natasha tell you?"

"Not much. She doesn't know everything. What did Melinda and Nick have to say."

Phil took a deep breath. "Inside."

Clint watched and waited quietly as Phil shed his coat and gloves. He took his briefcase into his study, coming back out to the living room with his tablet his hand. "They showed me this." He handed the computer to Clint.

It was opened to a news article out of Duluth, Minnesota. A young man had been attacked, and police were looking for the suspects. The young man (who's age was given as eighteen, and Clint couldn't help but think of him as a kid) gave a statement saying he had been picked up at a club by a couple. He had left with them and went to their motel room willingly. But once there, he had been drugged. The following details, while they had not been given graphically made Clint's stomach churn. He had been hurt. Bad. He was found alone the next morning by housekeeping.

Because of the drugs, the victim's memory of the night was hazy. He doesn't think the attackers ever gave their names (and the motel room was paid for in cash, false names believed to be given upon registration). All he could remember was that their was two of them. That one was older, and one younger. Both of them white and dark-haired. The older man had a accent. Possibly Southern.

The article was dated just over a week ago.

While Clint read, Phil had walked away into the kitchen. He returned with two glasses and a bottle of brandy. Clint stared at the article in frozen horror. Phil took the tablet out of his hand and replaced it with a glass of alcohol. Clint didn't think he could stomach it. Phil took to his own glass eagerly.

"Mel and Nick think..." Clint started. "Do you think?"

Phil poured himself another glass and ran a hand over his face. "Description fits."

"How did they even find this?"

"Nick started thinking, like he does, about all angles. Started wondering if John had reason to hastily leave his new home and hide away somewhere familiar. So, he and Melinda started poking around news stories from the Superior area. Violent crimes." Phil suddenly leaned forward, elbows on his knees, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. "Even after everything. I always thought everyone labeling him a 'psychopath' was an over-exaggeration. My friends being righteously angry on my behalf. They do that-" He gestured angrily at the still glowing webpage, "and go ice skating practically the next day. Like they're on vacation!"

"What are you going to do?" Clint knew what _he_ wanted to do. Arrow to the dick was too good for him. Nail gun. In multiple places. 

"I am going to keep doing this," Phil took a drink of brandy, "until I forget I ever let that kind of monster into my life." He shudder. "And hope that this young man, and anyone else John's hurt, have people around who love them and will help them." He let out a long breath, deflating back into the couch cushions. "Nick's taking care of the rest. If he hasn't made a tip-off call to Duluth yet, he will soon."

Clint finally took a sip of the brandy he'd been given. Its warmth helped dispel the way his blood had run cold. He slumped back, letting the heat of Phil next to him soak in, hoping Phil was getting as much comfort as Clint was getting just being together, having each other.

Clint knocked a knee against Phil's. "Hey. It's going to be okay now," he told him quietly.

Phil turned his head and took Clint's hand. He laced their fingers. "I know."

\----

Their drinking was nothing like it had been on New Year's, but they slept in late, neither wanting to leave the comfort and safety of the warm shelter of the blankets. The rest of the world could wait.

Clint's phone kept ringing. He tried to ignore it, but several text alerts in a row made him reluctantly untangle himself from Phil. The missed calls were all from Nat. No voice mails left. He switched over to his messages. Again, all from her.

_Wake-up lazy_

_I'm downtown._

_You need to see this_. 

There was a link to a video file.

_Phil needs to see it, too._

Clint frowned and shot a glance over to Phil who had his face smashed into the pillows, one eye half-open, watching Clint in sleepy curiosity. He downloaded the video.

Natasha wasn't the greatest cameraperson, the video bouncing and swaying a little. The haziness of the day didn't help with the resolution quality. But what she was showing him was clear. Two police cars were parked in front of the Riverlook Inn. Clint swore, and paused the video. "Phil," he jostled his shoulder urgently. "Phil, look."

He waited until Phil sat up and leaned close before starting the video again. Nat had started moving, trying to get a better angle of the hotel entrance. Four uniformed officers came out the door, guiding two men, hands cuffed behind their backs to the squad cars. Again, the quality made everyone's faces a little blurry, but there was no mistaking who and what they were witnessing.

The video ended as John Garrett and Grant Ward disappeared into separate cars. "Play it again," Phil demanded. Clint did.

This time Phil laughed. It started as a relieved huffed, then escalated to giddy and infectious. "One more time?" Clint asked through his own chuckles.

Phil nodded.

After about another half a dozen replays, Clint switched back to the message screen.

_**Thank you!** _

_I just happened to be at the right place, right time._

_**Yeah right. Of course. Sad you don't get your body-burying party?** _

_Not off the table. Take care of him. And yourself. <3 _

**_Will do. ttyl._ **

Phil settled back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "So, that's that."

"I think so. Hopefully the justice system pulls through and he won't hurt anybody ever again. And if it doesn't, apparently all our friends are up for discreet murder and body-hiding."

"Comforting. Nice to know I'm loved," he said with zero sarcasm.

Yes, yes it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad guys get their just desserts! Yay! Or at least as just as they can be without turning to vigilantism. 
> 
> I promise, promise, _promise_ , the next and final chapter about living in a winter wonderland is going to be chock-full of the kind of holiday sappiness that you're accustomed to with this series. I hope I can get it ready in time for Valentine's Day! *desperately ignores how very little time that is*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Valentine's Day, and Clint's resolved to treat his man like the prince he is. That means for the first time in their relationship, going out on a "proper" date with neckties, flowers, and a fancy restaurant. 
> 
> Plus: Natasha, no. Bucky, no. Tony, no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the final chapter. Are you ready for ridiculous amounts of fluff and schmoop? Are you?!

By mid-February, Clint was well and thoroughly done with winter. Snow was no longer a fun and magical substance for lights to twinkle off or to play in with his friends. It was a constant nuisance, making roads hazardous and extra physical labor necessary. He was sick of having to put on three layers of clothes just to step outside. How he longed for the days when all he needed to do was grab his jacket and head out the door, instead of fumbling with hat, scarf, and gloves just to go down the street for gas.

He missed his yard. He missed having his proper job.

At the very least there was a holiday coming up to keep his mood away from becoming as bleak as the barren trees and ever-rising dirtied snow mounds along the roadside.

After the unpleasant business back in January, Clint felt celebrating a day of excessive affection and declarations was just the sort of thing Phil needed. But whether it was something Phil wanted, Clint didn't know.

Valentine's Day could be tricky. People had very strong opinions about the holiday one way or the other. Clint tried to gauge where Phil's feelings fell. They'd gone to the grocery store together a couple times, and Phil hadn't commented on all the heart-shaped candy that appeared not long after New Years. Clint took it as a good sign. Usually if someone was dead-set against Valentine's Day, they were not shy in letting other people know. At the same time, he apparently wasn't entirely enthused by the spectacle either.

Now Natasha's opinion Clint knew. She scoffed at the red and pink wreath he replaced the Christmas one with on his back door. He had secretly hoped that being in a relationship might change her mind, but she was a woman who stayed true to her convictions.

There was only a week left for Clint to make plans. The deepest romantic part of him would have preferred to leave any grand gesture as a surprise. But he needed to know if they were going to be taken well. Even Phil commenting that the cupid window clings Clint stuck up were "cute" wasn't enough to fuel Clint's confidence. So, he had to do what he probably should have done a month ago and just outright asked.

"How do you feel about Valentine's Day?"

Phil peered at him from over the top of his glasses. It made him look like a dad from a teen comedy, except a lot sexier than they normally were. "I don't get worked up about it, one way or the other," he said carefully.

Okay, so not a rousing endorsement, but he could work with that. "Would you mind if I tried to get you worked up about it?"

Phil did a terrible job of looking put-upon and trying to stop his smile. "Well, I suppose I do tend to like the way you work me up."

Clint flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, anything that is an absolute 'no' in terms of romantic surprises?"

Phil took his glasses off (which, boo) and considered for a moment. "No surprise trips," he said, face scrunching a little.

Yeah, no. That hit too close to un-romantic memories. "But otherwise I can shower you flowers and glitter."

Phil snorted. "As long as you don't mean that too literally. And I hate those chalky candy hearts." His expression fell. "Oh! But I... You shouldn't have to plan everything. I didn't think... I don't have-" He colored, and his flustered fretting would have been cute if not for the obvious panic he put himself in.

"Hey, no no," Clint reached across the kitchen table. "I don't expect anything. Except letting me do something really, really nice and special for you. That's all I want. You deserve it."

"So do you."

"Let me be utterly, embarrassingly sappy-cheesy for you. We'll take photos, send them to our friends, make them barf over how ridiculously cute and in love we are."

"That does sound like fun."

"You bet it does."

\---

"Okay, I started a list of traditional Valentine's things. Even if they don't fit Phil, we'll cross them out later. So far I got chocolate, flowers, stuffed animals, balloons..."

"Jewelry."

"Yeah, that."

"You already got him a watch for Christmas."

"He's not really the diamond necklace type."

"Necktie?"

"Ooooh." He jotted it down. "I think I got enough gift ideas. What about things to do? I got candle-lit dinner. There's got to be something else."

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"Other than the obvious."

"Marriage proposal."

Clint choked on his soda. "What?!"

"It's a thing people do on Valenti- Oh my god, Clint I was joking. Please don't tell me you're going to-"

"NO! No."

"Maybe _he's_ going to-" 

"Shut up!" Clint threw the pen down and covered his face.

"Who are you torturing now?" The voice made Clint jump and he looked up to find Bucky coming out of Nat's bathroom, hair wet, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, one sleeve empty.

Clint turned to Nat. "You could've told me you had company!" He accused.

"You barged in saying you needed my help. You know I'll stop whatever I'm doing to help you."

"But not whoever," Clint hissed.

"It's okay, we were done," Bucky said.

Clint groaned.

"Clint needed someone to bounce ideas off for his big Valentine's Day plans."

"It's your first one together, right? Sky-written marriage proposal. Go big or go home."

"I hate you all," Clint groused. He took the pen back up and doodled arrows aiming at Nat and Bucky both.

"The candle-lit dinner thing. At home or out?"

"C'mon, Nat, you know I can't cook."

"Leaving it late for dinner reservations. Good luck finding an open table at the really nice places."

"Drop Stark's name, I bet that would help. Or get him to call for you. He'll get you in anywhere," Bucky suggested.

"We have been wanting to try that new steak and seafood place, the one with the wine bar," Clint admitted. "Last I checked, reservations were two months out. Don't know how I feel abusing Stark's friendship."

Bucky waved his hand dismissively. "Stark always abuses his friendships."

"He has a point," Natasha agreed. "Excuse me." She left the table and headed into her bedroom for some mysterious reason.

"So, hey." Bucky fidgeted. "Since we're speaking of Valentine's Day..."

Clint widened his eyes at him. "Oh... No, no, no..."

Bucky ran his hand through his hair. "I know she's not that kind of lady, and that's great! But I also feel like I have to do something, y'know? Help me out. What would be the least offensive gift?"

"A big basket of nothing. Seriously, dude. If you like your balls where they are."

"I'll keep it mind."

\----

Clint spent the better part of the week revising his list. Things were crossed-off, then rewritten, only to be crossed off again. Most of it was because he was sure he'd only be embarrassing himself with the gesture or gift. Phil, wonderful Phil, kept reassuring him that he would enjoy and appreciate whatever Clint had in mind.

It didn't stop Clint from waking up on Saturday morning, February the fourteenth, feeling giddier than he had been on Christmas Eve.

He gave Phil a testing poke on the arm, but his ability to sleep heavily on mornings he didn't have to work was present as ever. Clint still took special care to slide out from under the covers of his bed as smoothly and noiselessly as possible. He eased open a dresser drawer with gritted teeth against the slight scraping noise it made. He dug under a pile of jeans and removed the card he bought.

The inside message was pretty stock, but it was the obnoxious glitter on the front that had drawn Clint to it. He propped it up, sans envelope on the nightstand by Phil's head. Hopefully it'd be one of the first things he saw when he woke up.

Clint padded out to the kitchen to start coffee. It was a common act, but Clint always liked when he'd get a chance to make the coffee for Phil. Phil loved coffee. To watch the way the mere smell of it could transform his grumpy, sleepy face to something akin to bliss was a treat. To be the one to provide the means of joy was a small, but special pleasure for Clint.

And like his body was attuned to the proximity and availability of caffeine, Phil emerged right as the coffee maker hissed to completion. Clint poured him a cup: just a drop of milk, no sugar. Phil's fingers were covered in red specks of glitter when he took the offered mug. He took his life-giving drink and slipped an arm around Clint's waist. "I love you," he sighed.

"Sayin' that to me or the coffee?"

Phil grinned. "Both. But you're my favorite. Don't tell the beans."

They kissed. Phil had to deftly get the mug of hot liquid out of his hand safely when Clint's enthusiasm pushed him back into the counter. Phil's hand was warm from the mug as it came up stroke along Clint's neck, drawing Clint in closer and deeper.

Clint pulled back and chuckled. "I think it knows now."

Phil laughed, too, but the way he cradle the mug back into his hands was almost apologetically so.

"Want your breakfast?" Clint asked.

"You made breakfast?" Phil was a little too incredulous for Clint's taste.

Not that it wasn't unwarranted incredulity. Clint rubbed the back of his neck. "Sort of?" He reached up into an cupboard and pulled down a plastic container he had hid up there the previous day.

He set it on the kitchen table and gestured for Phil to open. "You made these?" Phil's delighted smile of surprise made the extra subterfuge of buying a "sugar cookie" scented candle to disguise the fact he had actually been baking worth the effort.

"Yeah. I was thinking about all the times you made me stuff. Thought it was my turn. The guys said the ones you showed me how to make weren't half-bad. So, I figured I could do it again."

Phil picked up a heart-shape cookie. Many of the tiny heart sprinkles came tumbling off the white frosting when he did. Clint bit his lip in nervous anticipation as Phil took his first bite. Clint had tried one, of course. It wasn't anywhere near the boner-inducing stuff that popped out of Phil's oven, but it was at least edible.

Phil smiled at him in approval, licking frosting off his lips. And Clint started to regret that he had used the entire can of frosting on the cookies. "They're good," Phil said, forcing Clint's eyes away from his mouth.

"Yeah? You're not just saying that?"

Phil tilted his head at him with a "honey, please" look, and took another bite. Fair enough.

"So, these are the breakfast?" Phil asked, grabbing another cookie out of the container and handing it Clint.

"Breakfast of champions!" Clint dunked the pointed end of his cookie into his own cup of coffee.

Clint shooed Phil out of his house after lunch (and a lazy morning of cuddling and getting sprinkles all over the sofa). Clint had some preparations to make. "Remember, dinner reservations for 7:30, I'll pick you up at 7:00."

"Pick me up?" Phil raised his brows, amused. "Are you sure you'll get me home before curfew?"

Clint gave him a shove out the door. Time to set-up Phase 3, then get ready for Phase 2.

\---

Clint's stomach fluttered. Which was nonsense. There was no need for first date jitters, it wasn't a first date! And yet, it sort of was, at least in terms of a "traditional" date. Their courtship consisted primarily of outdoor activities. Anytime they went out to eat together it was for burgers and pancakes. All of them casual, unfussy affairs.

This was just the first time Clint was dressing up in his best "sexy clothes" (as Natasha dubbed them when she helped pick them out). He was wearing a black shirt with a black necktie that matched so well it nearly disappeared against shirt. On top of that was a heather grey waistcoat, done up with a row of small buttons. His pants matched the waistcoat.

He was grateful the evening wasn't overly cold. It allowed him to comfortably wear his leather jacket. Anything bulkier would have ruined the effect.

He rang Phil's front doorbell, something he had never done before. He bounced on his toes, waiting for him to answer. He firmly told his hands not to sweat because come _on_. He adjusted his grip on the bouquet of red tulips and blue irises nonetheless. 

The rattle of the lock being undone and the door opening stilled Clint's feet. He smiled, but the cheeky greeting he had planned (something like out of a teen rom com) died on his lips at the sight before him.

Phil generally wore suits to work, and he always looked good in them. But this was not a Phil-going-to-work suit. This was a deep navy blue with jacket buttoned, hugging and accentuating the lines of his shoulders, chest and waist. The collar of his crisp, white shirt was _open_ , teasing a glimpse of collarbone and a peek of chest hair. To top it all off, he was wearing his black, thick-rimmed glasses. Clint's knees turned to jelly. 

Phil, looking as gobsmacked and ardent as Clint must have, managed to keep Clint on his feet with strong hands on his waist, pulling Clint against him. Clint, even with blood surging elsewhere, had presence of mind enough to keep the flowers from being squashed between them.

Phil swept him into a searing kiss that had Clint gasping, fervently matching his intensity. Phil's mouth leaving his was like losing an oxygen mask underwater. "Do we really need to go out?" Phil said, hot against Clint's ear, making him shudder.

Clint whimpered, hating the answer he had to give. "Yes."

Phil sighed, the breath whispering against Clint's neck, sending another string of shivers through him. He stepped back, putting Clint at arm's length, and for the first time he noticed the flowers. "For me?" He asked, smiling coyly.

Clint waved the bouquet, and shrugged. Without Phil pressed against him, the chill in the air helped calm him back down. "You like 'em?" He held them out.

"They're beautiful." Phil took them from Clint's hand and gave them an obligatory sniff. "Thank you. Let me put them down and get my coat?"

Clint nodded. Phil ducked back inside, leaving Clint momentarily alone on the front porch. Clint breathed out, long and slow. "Later, later, later," he muttered to himself over and over.

\-----

So maybe taking Clint's pick-up truck was incongruous with the "fancy date" theme, but he wanted to drive, and that was what he owned. It stuck out a bit in the restaurant's parking lot. At least it wasn't so high-end of a place that there were valet's to look disdainfully at it.

"How did you managed to get a reservation on _Valentine's Day_?" Phil asked, jumping down from the cab, without a rumple in his suit. 

Clint shrugged and slipped a hand through Phil's elbow. "I know a guy."

Phil hummed and gave Clint a sideways glance. The answer was of course obvious. And Clint did know how Phil didn't care for Tony Stark being involved in his personal affairs. The fact that Phil wasn't calling him out on it meant he was going to let it go, at least for tonight.

When Clint gave his name to the hostess, her civil smile blossomed into eager accommodation. "Of course! Right this way, sirs!"

The full dining room was dimly lit, casting the various couples into intimate shadows. In one corner, a string quartet was in the middle of a piece unmistakably from the score of _Titanic_. But to Clint's confusion, she led them past all that, stopping in front of a table nestled into a curved alcove, walled off from the rest of restaurant, near the kitchen. Clint stared at the cozy booth seating and the small chandelier hanging above it. 

"Is this the chef's table?" Phil managed to ask, while Clint was still too shocked to do so himself.

"Of course, sir," the hostess replied, smile firmly plastered in place.

Clint cleared his throat. "I didn't- Uhm... Are you sure?"

"Barton. Party of two. Saturday, February fourteenth. 7:30. Chef's table. Mr. Stark was quite clear."

Clint groaned, tilting his head back. "That is not what I told him."

Phil tugged at his hand. The hostess was beginning to lose her cheery veneer at Clint's protestations.

"Stark never does favors by halves," Phil reminded him, tugging at him again.

To the hostess' obvious relief, they took their seats. She lifted her hand in a short wave, and she slid away as the waiter appeared. "Good evening, sirs, and happy Valentine's Day." He greeted. "The chef has prepared a tasting menu for you gentlemen. May I make suggestions for wines to pair with each course?"

Clint asked for them to be given only one glass of red (waiter's choice) for them each. Clint was driving, plus their was a bottle back at his house for them to split later. No need for a head start.

Once the waiter left them to the privacy of their cozy nook, Clint slumped back into the plush leather bench. "I'm sorry. This is a bit more.... _More_ than I intended." 

Phil just shook his head and chuckled. "You should've expected this when you allowed an opportunity for Stark to meddle." Phil rubbed a hand along Clint's arm soothingly. "It's fine. It's actually really nice. The only real intrusion he could make would be if he showed up and sat in our laps."

Clint laughed, worry alleviated. "Shush, you. You know what happens when you speak of the devil."

The entire meal was absolutely delicious. Clint put several things in his mouth he never heard of before. They both giggled at the ridiculously small size of some of the portions (amuse bouche? Was that an appetizer for ants?) and the pretentious presentations (a rose made from raw salmon!).

In the comfort and privacy the booth allotted them, they indulged in displays of affection they usual didn't bother with in public: feeding each other with fingers or from their own forks, wiping the stray spot of sauce from the corner of Phil's lips, Phil kissing the taste of cranberry vinaigrette from Clint's tongue away.

The waiter came with the check while they were in the middle of demolishing a decadent tiramisu. He shifted a little and coughed before setting the little black holder down. "I have a message to convey. From Mr. Stark."

Phil rolled his eyes. Clint set his fork down, and sat back, resigned. "Go ahead."

"Mr. Stark wanted to let you know that he understands that it is important for you, Mr. Barton, to," he paused and closed his eyes, mustering his professionalism. "'Provide for your man' by your own means." Phil snorted. "He however still made sure that tonight's extravagances were not put fully on you, and 'got' you a discount."

"I understand. Thank you, Jerome," he said, letting the poor man go about his less embarrassing duties. Clint grabbed the check and kept it well hidden from Phil's sight. He kept a poker face when he read the amount. At least with the 'discount' it was closer to what Clint was imagining to be paying for a normal table and dinner anyway.

A couple minutes later, Clint looked up from signing the receipt to find Phil with smoldering eyes, stoking the fire under Clint's skin now that Phase 2 was complete. "Home?" Clint asked.

Phil didn't even answer. He just got up and impatiently held out his hand

\----

Clint barely had the backdoor shut behind him before Phil hands and mouth were on him again, stealing his breath and pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Clint responded with a hunger left unsated by dinner. They pulled and tugged, spun and pressed each other against walls in turn as they inelegantly made their way to Clint's bedroom. They were near the threshold, and Phil's fingers were on Clint's belt when Clint had to tell him stop and, "Wait, wait, give me one second."

With more willpower than he thought he could possible have, Clint extracted himself from Phil's arms. He slid into the bedroom to make the final touches. He opened the door just a crack to beckon Phil in.

Clint held his breath, hoping that the scene wasn't too cheesy, but rather that just-right amount of cheese that Phil would find amusing, and sweet. The kind that made him smile with the perfect lines at his eyes creasing in fond delight.

Clint's hopes came true. Phil took in the myriad of lit candles, the bottle of wine and the pair of filled glasses on the night stand. The flickering light made Phil's eyes sparkle when he turned to Clint. "It's perfect. I love you." Phil kissed him, slower and softer than he had only moments before. It made Clint's heart throb, fitting to burst.

Phil pulled back and licked his lips. "I know you said I didn't have to get you anything." Clint opened his mouth, but Phil held up a finger, stopping his words. "But I feel even better now that I did." He went to the nightstand, and opened the drawer, pulling out a small box. When and how did Phil manage to hide something in Clint's own bedroom?

Clint pulled off the red ribbon and opened his gift. He pulled out a thick bracelet of braided leather with a silver arrow clasp. "Happy Valentine's Day, Clint. I love you." Phil said, gently, helping Clint wrap it around his wrist. "Do you like it?"

Clint sniffed. "I- Uh." And nope, Clint was very much not going to cry. Just because the day went even better than planned, and he was able to do everything he wanted to show the man he loved just how much he loved and appreciated him. It was like a fairy tale come true. There was no call for tears just because being so thoroughly loved and appreciated in return was beyond anything he let himself hope for for a long time.

Clint took a deep breath and coughed. He determinedly blinked back the wetness in his eyes and looked up at Phil. "I love it. I love you."

Phil pulled him into a hug, and held him. Just held him. If he noticed the wet dots Clint left on his shoulder, he said nothing about it.

\------

Clint awoke in the morning feeling exhausted, sore, and fantastic. It was a miracle his bed was still in one piece after last night. Hell, it was a miracle he was still in one piece. Clint shifted and stretched, arching his back. Yeah, he was going to feel that for days. Awesome.

Clint rolled over, landing half on top of Phil who snuffled a grunt at the jostling. Wrapped up in each other, they fell back asleep.

Another hour later Clint woke up again with Phil, naturally, still asleep. He got out of bed and surveyed the state of his bedroom. Their nice clothes were rumpled piles dotting the floor. The candles had burned themselves down, leaving drippings and pools of wax on his night stands and dressers. The wine bottle was on its side, the glasses empty save for red stains collected in the bottoms.

Clint stretched again and cracked his neck. He leaned over the bed and gave Phil a quick peck on the forehead. He padded out into the kitchen to start the coffee maker. A quiet, insisting beeping had him poking at the smoke alarm until he discovered the sound was coming form his jacket, left where it fell last night.

Messages from Nat.

_No_. She said, followed by a picture. 

A white teddy bear was propped up next to an empty bottle of vodka. The plushy heart being held in the bear's paws read: SHIT BITCH YOU IS FINE.

Followed by a reiterated, _No_. 

Clint laughed. If she had truly hated it, she would have burned the evidence, not taken the time to take a picture to share with Clint.

 _ **You love him**_ , Clint wrote. 

_Shut up._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this turned out to be more than twice the length of its predecessor. I don't know the last time I was able to consistently write for and finish a multiple-chapter fic like this. 
> 
> My biggest and most heartfelt thanks to everyone who had encouraged me to keep going by leaving kudos and such lovely comments. 
> 
> Now, this series is called "A Man for All Seasons." Does this mean you'll be seeing at least two more stories in the months to come? My best answer is, I certainly hope so! But we may have to see what and how I get inspired. And whether or not I make it to the Bristol Ren Faire this summer for research.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to update this fairly regularly to keep up with the holidays.
> 
> Title from "The Bells of New York City" by Josh Groban.


End file.
